MASTER  NEGATIVE 

NO.  93-81260 


MICROFILMED  1993 
COLUMBIA  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARIES/NEW  YORK 


as  part  of  the 
"Foundations  of  Western  Civilization  Preservation  Project" 


Funded  by  the 
NATIONAL  ENDOWMENT  FOR  THE  HUMANITIES 


Reproductions  may  not  be  made  without  permission  from 

Columbia  University  Library 


COPYRIGHT  STATEMENT 


The  copyright  law  of  the  United  States  -  Title  17,  United 
States  Code  -  concerns  the  making  of  photocopies  or 
other  reproductions  of  copyrighted  material. 

Under  certain  conditions  specified  in  the  law,  libraries  and 
archives  are  authorized  to  furnish  a  photocopy  or  other 
reproduction.  One  of  these  specified  conditions  is  that  the 
photocopy  or  other  reproduction  is  not  to  be  "used  for  any 
purpose  other  than  private  study,  scholarship,  or 
research.**  If  a  user  makes  a  request  for,  or  later  uses,  a 
photocopy  or  reproduction  for  purposes  in  excess  of  "fair 
use,"  that  user  may  be  liable  for  copyright  infringement. 

This  institution  reserves  the  right  to  refuse  to  accept  a 
copy  order  if,  in  its  judgement,  fulfillment  of  the  order 
would  involve  violation  of  the  copyright  law. 


A  UTHOR: 


RICE  INSTITUTE 


TITLE: 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE 
OPENING  OF  THE  RICE 

PLACE: 

HOUSTON,  TEX 

DA  TE: 

[1912?] 


Master  Negative  if 


COLUMBIA  UNIVEI^ITY  LIBRARIES 
PRESERVATION  DEPARTMENT 


0 


Restrictions  on  Use: 


DIDLIOGRAPHIC  MICROFORM  TARGET 


Original  Material  as  Filmed  -  Existing  Bibliographic  Record 


061R36 
B 

Q 


fT'fVia 


|i  i<  I  mil  ■      n  in      I        ,», 


■"-■»;«p»-:i!rr=»^- 


1  ? 


i 


-o 


Q 


^■(illian  I  larch  Rice  University.  ■' 

K^^titete^Hiberai-afld-techiiicaHeammg,  Mm^s^, 

an^iLnnf  ''nf '  opening  of  tl.e  Rice  institute;  being 
an  account  .  .  of  an  academic  festival  held  in  celebration 

of  Hbefar.'n  ]7o7'"^  f^  ^^'  Kce  institute,  a  universSy 
ot  liberal  and  technical  learning  founded  in  the  citv  of 

h  m  t"fh?n  f '  ''^'  ^^''^"•-"^.Marsh  Rice  and  dedicated  by 
h" ustU  Te^'lSlir      ""'  ''''''''''  ^^-"-'  -<i  -t  •• 

261-!'     ^™"'"   ^°'''-  P'^'"  (^  "'•)   P°^'5-'   f°'d-  plan,   facsims.  (1   fold.) 

(Continued  on  next  card) 


yj 


1      ! 


i    t 


\ 


TECHNICAL  MICROFORM  DATA 


■p 


S/rfff^ 


REDUCTION     RATIO: 


FILM     SIZE: 

IMAGE  PLACEMENT:    lA     IIA     ID     IIB 

DATE     FILMED: l___. INITIALS _>__ 

FILMED  BY:    RESEARCH  PUBLICATIONS,  INC  WOODBRIDGE.  CT 


//v^ 


<? 


COLUMBIA  UNIVEI^ITY  LIBRARIES 
PRESERVATION  DEPARTMENT 

BIDLIOGRAPHIC  MTCRnFORM  TARCFT 


Master  Negative  it 


Original  Material  as  Filmed  -  Existing  Bibliographic  Record 


■"^•^  -VMMr>i^i^ 


f-      Tl,o  book  ofthe  tSr   %'f?S^'  ^r^' 
Paged  continuously  P""ng  ...     [1912  ?j     (Card  2) 

l?ivcn  hv  fl,«  ,^"^/^"<^iscI   quartet.      Toasts    in/    ^        ^  °^  *^^  concerts 
^iVLii  [)v  tlic  trustrp«:  If  ♦!,«  n     -i       ;^  ^«tsis    ana    rcsnon<;fc    of    *u         *-^*  i^ 

17-^097 


i 


i 


1 


Restrictions  on  Use: 


TECHNICAL  MICROFORM  DATA 


FILM      SIZE: ^S   /^^^ 

IMAGE  PLACEMENT:  1a  "IFa'Ib     JIB 
DATE     FILMED:      ^-  T    y-^ 


REDUCTION     RATIO:     ,//>^ 


C^  *- — 


COLUMBIA  UNIVERSrrY  LIBRARIES 
PRESERVATION  DEPARTMENT 


Master  Negative  # 

_g3:lv2ibp 


DIDLIOGRAPHIC  MICROFORM  TA R G ET 


Original  Material  as  Filmed  -  Existing  Bibliographic  Record 


Q61R3 


Restrictions  on  Use: 


1    iiiiife  ...    [IJ12?J    (Card  3) 

soplMCal  ianli  ks    be  ne"  J^",':"'"''"^^-''^'^^"'  '^y  Hugo  de  Vricr'°pf'-?"' 


library  of  Congress 


[ 


I 


LD4711.R349    1912 


17-8097 


\ 


TECHNICAL  MICROFORM  DATA 


REDUCTION     RATIO:      / '  ^" 


FILM     SIZE: ^:£''^_'^__ 

IMAGE  PLACEMENT    lA    ^     ID     IID 

DATE     FILMED: ^_A C^. INITI  ALS___^/tIl.. 

FILMED  BY:    RFSEARCM  PUBLICATIONS,  INC   WOODBRrPGE'cT 


c 


Association  for  Information  and  Image  Management 

1 1 00  Wayne  Avenue,  Suite  1 1 00 
Silver  Spring,  Maryland  20910 

301/587-8202 


Centimeter 

12        3        4 


Mil 


lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll 


Inches 


I 


6 

iiiiiiiiiiiiiliiii 


I  1  I  I  I 


7        8 

iliiiiliiiili 


T 


1.0 


M 


1.25 


PTTT 


iiiiiiii 


10       11        12       13       14       15    mm 

iiiliiiiliiiiliiiiliiiiliiiiliiiiliiiiliiiiliiiiliiiil 


^  mil  2.8 


15.0 


3.2 


3.6 


4.0 


lUku, 


1.4 


TTT 


2.5 


2.2 


2.0 


i.8 


1.6 


T 


TTT 


1 


/ 


MRNUFflCTURED  TO  PIIM  STRNDRRDS 
BY  RPPLIED  IMAGE.  INC. 


I 

If*-   M 


1^ 


-       Ill  ^1  #ii 


^i 


■mmtism.ymimaif^ijm. 


I 


If 


OG\"K^S 


LIBRARY 


GIVEN   BY 


PUBLISHER 


Cdunibia  Untber-sttp      ^ 
itttbeCitPofJleUiJDork 


i 


I 


i 


i 


.HMMirilL 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


OCTOBER  TENTH,  ELEVENTH,  TWELFTH 

NINETEEN   HUNDRED 

AND    TWELVE 

Volume  One 


mMmm^u^immmm^m^i^mumiikmmimmmiltliimiimimmm 


> 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE 
OPENING  OF 

THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


BEING  AN  ACCOUNT  IN  THREE  VOLUMES  OF  AN 
ACADEMIC  FESTIVAL  HELD  IN  CELEBRATION  OF 
THE  FORMAL  OPENING  OF  THE  RICE  INSTITUTE, 
A  UNIVERSITY  OF  LIBERAL  AND  TECHNICAL 
LEARNING  FOUNDED  IN  THE  CITY  OF  HOUSTON, 
TEXAS,  BY  WILLIAM  MARSH  RICE  AND  DEDICATED 
BY    HIM    TO    THE    ADVANCEMENT  OF  LETTERS, 

SCIENCE,  AND  ART 


Volume  I 


HOUSTON,  TEXAS 
U.S.A. 


Uat-^..- 


Cf^^/^f^ 


r 


^.eC'^^j^/-r ^',  /.O/^'S*. 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE 
OPENING  OF 

THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


BEING  AN  ACCOUNT  IN  THREE  VOLUMES  OF  AN 
ACADEMIC  FESTIVAL  HELD  IN  CELEBRATION  OF 
THE  FORMAL  OPENING  OF  THE  RICE  INSTITUTE, 
A  UNIVERSITY  OF  LIBERAL  AND  TECHNICAL 
LEARNING  FOUNDED  IN  THE  CITY  OF  HOUSTON, 
TEXAS,  BY  WILLIAM  MARSH  RICE  AND  DEDICATED 
BY    HIM   TO    THE    ADVANCEMENT  OF  LETTERS, 

SCIENCE,  AND  ART 


Volume  I 


HOUSTON,  TEXAS 

U.  S.  A. 


Vi7 


M 


THESE  COMMEMORATIVE  VOLUMES  ARE 
INSCRIBED  BY  SPECIAL  PERMISSION  TO 
THE  HONORABLE  WOODROW  WILSON, 
PH.D.,  LITT.D.,  LL.D.,  MAN  OF  LETTERS, 
LEADER  OF  MEN,  THIRTEENTH  PRESI- 
DENT OF  PRINCETON  UNIVERSITY, 
AND  THE  TWENTY-EIGHTH  PRESIDENT 
OF   THE    UNITED    STATES    OF  AMERICA 


.\ 


V 


CONTENTS 

VOLUMES   ONE,   TWO,   AND  THREE 


LIST  OF  DELEGATES vol.  i 

ADDRESSES  OF  WELCOME  AND  RE- 
SPONSES AT  A  LUNCHEON  GIVEN  AT 
THE  CITY  AUDITORIUM       .      .      .      vol.  i 

PROGRAMS  OF  THE  CONCERTS  REN- 
DERED BY  THE  KNEISEL  QUARTET     vol.  i 

TOASTS  AND  RESPONSES  AT  THE  SUPPER 
GIVEN  BY  THE  TRUSTEES  AT  THE  RESI- 
DENTIAL HALL vol.  I 

FORMAL  EXERCISES  OF  DEDICA- 
TION       VOL.1 

RESPONSES  AT  THE  LUNCHEON  IN  THE 
INSTITUTE  COMMONS     ....      vol.  i 

RELIGIOUS  SERVICES  IN  THE  CITY  AUDI- 
TORIUM vol.1 

THE  INAUGURAL  LECTURES 

The  Problem  of  the  Philosophy  of  History— 
The  Theory  of  Civilization— The  Methods 
OF  Extending  Civilization  Among  the  Na- 
tions     VOL.  II 

Molecular  Theories  and  Mathematics— Ag- 
gregates OF  Zero  Measure— Monogenic  Uni- 
form NoN- Analytic  Functions  :  The  Theories 
OF  Cauchy,  Weierstrass,  and  Riemann  vol.  ii 


PAGE 

3 


25 


53 


57 


97 


221 


237 


265 


347 


CONTENTS 
THE  INAUGURAL  LECTURES-  (continued)      pace 
The  Breviary  of  ^Esthetic       .      .      .     vol.  ii     430 

Mutations  in  Heredity— Geographical  Bot- 
any—Modern Cytological  Problems— The 
Ideals  OF  AN  Experiment  Garden      .     vol.  11     518 

Philosophical  Landmarks       .      .      .     vol.  ii     620 

The  Introduction  of  Western  Learning  into 
Japan vol.  iii     681 

The  Study  of  Poetry vol.  hi     726 

The  System  of  the  Sciences— Principles  of 
THE  Theory  of  Education  ....    vol.  iii     778 

Henri  Poincare vol.  iii     899 

The  Electron  as  an  Element— Compounds  of 
Electrons— The  Disruption  of  the  So-called 
Elements vol.  hi     929 

The  Corpuscular  Theory  of  Aurora  Borea- 

Lis VOL.  Ill     981 

The  Generalization  of  Analytic  Functions 
—On  the  Theory  of  Waves  and  Green's 
Method vol.  m  1036 


•  •  •     X-  1 

Vlll    I 


■  -jp^T*?*?^* 


^ 


w^lii^iiii' 


THF  PRESIDENT  AND  IRUSTfcES  OF 

THE   RICE   INSTITUTE 

OF  LIBERAL  AND  TECHNICAL  LKAKNINCi 
FOUNDHD  IN  THE  f  JTY  OF  IIOL^TON  TFXaS  m 

wax  I  AM  MARSH  RICE 

AiNr^  l>Elil€HTeD  BY  HIM 
TO  TH  E  ADVANCr  M ENT  OT  i  ETTERS  SCJ B-iCW.  A  '        .  ?>T 


HAVrNG   »E«X\fcD  F.RVE  FOtiMAt    OFEiMING 

OF  THK  Ni^  t  NrVERSiTY 

WITH  AFPROPklATT  ACAJ^f.^'r  CI!I?*AIGNI!;S 

AND  T'^  *^'V'TT-  :  '  •  ,^ 

FROM  T^"':   '•l^tVtf^--   ^-  ■'  ^.  :.,-..      .    ,*  nd^TIONS 

THE  INAUGURATiO^ 


*tON 


f  ■*','■  \  -  ^  ,-., 


TO  S&m  A  k£P(USFNTA.riVB 

OF  THAT  DISTilSGL'.'J^HD  SiXIlfcTY  OF  SCHOLARS 

TO  m,  THE  GUEST  Hf  iHF  8K  E  INSTITUTE 

THliRSDAY  FHJDAY  4.ND  SATURDAY 

»! :  rmrn  EtEviNTH  knu  refirrH  dats of ocTC^m 
mtmimn  : ' ;  ■  "■'Duso  amd  tv^lve 


MKSinrwT 


rn\' TF\TS 


f  f^R  TV  A 


■f^Tr    R: 


T      !-• 


)7rTT  ppc 


vN  JtXFEKIMENT  GARDEN 


>Of- 
VOL.  I  r 


jPHicAL  Landmarks 


INTK 


2T10N  or  Wfstf 


HF    t  K 


iiOUCAl 


:CARE 


VOL,  III 
VOL.  Ul 


ROS^ 


ElEMEN  1  — COMPOIJ  NDS  OF 

i^JSRFPTTOV  OF  TBV  ^^  .   . 


iii 


ir-UAi    u: 


/^UKA    DU>'      \- 


T 


PACK 


\OL.  II       430 


CtR 


\  (^L.  U       620 


OGl 


7  2  J ) 
778 

8(>Q 


929 


VOL.  Ill       981 


iZAi  \NALrnc  Functions 

ORV     Of      W^VF5, 

.     VOL.  Hi   1036 


^ 


1 


U:  1 1 1 .usA_^^_/V    AKi    / 

\  ~''   ll-M  I, /" 

THE  PRESIDENT  AND  TRUSTEES  OF 

THE   RICE   INSTITUTE 

OF  LIBERAL  AND  TECHNICAL  LEARNING 
FOUNDED  IN  THE  CITY  OF  HOUSTON  TEXAS  BY 

WILLIAM  MARSH  RICE 

AND  DEDICATED  BY  HIM 
TO  THE  ADVANCEMENT  OF  LETTERS  SCIENCE  AND  ART 

HAVING    RESOLVED   TO  OBSERVE  THE   FORMAL  OPENING 

OF  THE  NEW  UNIVERSITY 

WITH  APPROPRIATE  ACADEMIC  CEREMONIES 

AND  TO  INVITE  DELEGATES 

FROM  THE  UNIVERSITIES  COLLEGES  SCIENTIFIC  FOUNDATIONS 

AND  LEARNED  SOCIETIES  OF  THE  WORLD 

TO  BE  PRESENT  AT  THE  EXERCISES  ATTENDING 

THE  INAUGURATION  OF  THE  EDUCATIONAL  PROGRAMME  OF  THE  INSTITUTION 

IT  THEREFORE  BECOMES  MY  PRIVILEGE 
MOST  RESPECTFULLY  TO  REQUEST 

^be  XntniversitiP  of  Paris 

TO  SEND  A  REPRESENTATIVE 

OF  THAT  DISTINGUISHED  SOCIETY  OF  SCHOLARS 

TO  BE  THE  GUEST  OF  THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

THURSDAY  FRIDAY  AND  SATURDAY 

%^^.    '*f^  V      THE  TENTH  ELEVENTH  AND  TWELFTH  DAYS  OF  OCTOBER 


;rt?«r' 


1,  •  >••        '-  ■ 


NINETEEN  HUNDRED  AND  TWELVE 


it^f*r^XiJKI&Ptil^ 


PRFSIDtNT 


^ 


CONTENTS 


VOLUME       ONE 


PAGE 

INSCRIPTION V 

LIST  OF  DELEGATES 3 

PROGRAM 17 

ADDRESSES  OF  WELCOME  AND  RESPONSES  AT  A 
LUNCHEON  GIVEN  AT  THE  CITY  AUDITORIUM 
BY  THE  MUNICIPAL  GOVERNMENT  OF  THE 
CITY  OF  HOUSTON 

Mayor  Horace  Baldwin  Rice  of  Houston 25 

Mr.  James  Addison  Baker,  Chairman  of  the  Board  of 

Trustees  of  the  Rice  Institute 26 

Hon.  Oscar  Branch  Colquitt,  Governor  of  the  State  of 

Texas ^7 

Professor  Sir  William  Ramsay,  of  the  University  of  Lon- 
don       31 

Provost  William  Henry  Carpenter,  of  Columbia  Univer- 
sity       33 

Professor  Senator  Vito  Volterra,  of  the  University  of  Rome       38 
Professor  Sir  Henry  Jones,  of  Glasgow  University        .      .       39 
Dean  George  Cary  Comstock,  of  the  University  of  Wis- 
consin         41 

President  Henry  Sturgis  Drinker,  of  Lehigh  University  .       44 
Professor  Emile  Borel,  of  the  University  of  Paris    ...        45 
Chancellor  James  Hampton  Kirkland,  of  Vanderbilt  Uni- 
versity       40 

Professor  Hugo  de  Vries,  of  the  University  of  Amsterdam  .       49 
President  Samuel  Palmer  Brooks,  of  Baylor  University  .       49 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PROGRAMS  OF  THE  CONCERTS  RENDERED  BY 
THE  KNEISEL  QUARTET  OF  NEW  YORK  CITY     .       53 

TOASTS  AND  RESPONSES  AT  THE  SUPPER  GIVEN 
BY  THE  TRUSTEES  AT  THE  RESIDENTIAL  HALL 
IN  HONOR  OF  THE  INAUGURAL  LECTURERS 

"Letters"— Professor    Henry   van    Dyke,    of    Princeton 
University rg 

"Mathematics"— Professor  Emile  Borel,  of  the  Univer- 
sity of  Paris ^j 

'Thilosophy"— Professor  Sir  Henry  Jones,  of  Glasgow 

University 5^ 

"Physics"— Professor  Senator  Vito  Volterra,  of  the  Uni- 
versity of  Rome 53 

"Science"— Professor  Edwin  Grant  Conklin,  of  Prince- 
ton University ^q 

"Chemistry"— Professor  Sir  William   Ramsay,  of  the 
University  of  London ^3 

"History"— Professor  Rafael  Altamira  y  Crevea,  of  the 

University  of  Oviedo gQ 

"Biology"— Professor  Hugo  de  Vries,  of  the  University  of 
Amsterdam '     ^        g^ 

"Art"— Dr.  Ralph  Adams  Cram,  Architect  of  the  Rice  In- 
stitute          o- 

FORMAL  EXERCISES  OF  DEDICATION 

Bible  Readings  and  Prayer— Dr.  Robert  Ernest  Vin- 
son, of  Austin,  Texas ^^ 

"Veni  Creator  Spiritus" jq2 

The  Inaugural  Poem:  "Texas,  A  Democratic  Ode"— 

Dr.  Henry  van  Dyke,  of  Princeton,  New  Jersey       .      .      103 

"Education  and  the  State"— Mr.  Thomas  Jefferson 
Brown,  of  Austin,  Texas jj^ 

"The  Church  and  Education"— Dr.  Thomas  Frank 
Gailor,  of  Memphis,  Tennessee 123 

"The  Meaning  of  the  New  Institution"— Dr.  Edgar 

Odell  Lovett,  of  Houston,  Texas        ...!..      132 
"The  One  Hundredth  Psalm" 220 

Benediction— Dr.  Charles  Frederic  Aked,  of  San  Fran- 
cisco, California 221 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

LUNCHEON  AT  THE  INSTITUTE  COMMONS 
Congratulatory  Greetings  and  Addresses: 

On  the  part  of  foreign  and  American  learned  societies, 
Professor  Sir  William  Ramsay,  of  the  University  of 

London 223 

For  the  foreign  universities.  Professor  Emile  Borel,  of 

the  University  of  Paris 224 

On  behalf  of  the  American  institutions  of  the  East,  Dean 
William  Francis  Magie,  of  Princeton  University       .     225 

For  the  universities  of  the  South,   Professor  William 

Holding  Echols,  of  the  University  of  Virginia      .      .     228 

On  behalf  of  the  universities  in  the  Northern  States,  Presi- 
dent Harry  Pratt  Judson,  of  the  University  of 
Chicago 231 

For  the  American  universities  of  the  West,  President  Sid- 
ney Edward  Mezes,  of  the  University  of  Texas    .      .     234 

RELIGIOUS  SERVICES  LN  THE  CITY 
AUDITORIUM 
Hymn— "O  God,  Our  Help  in  Ages  Past"     ....     239 

Invocation— Dr.    Edgar    Odell    Lovett,    of    Houston, 

Texas 240 

Hymn— "O  God  of  Bethel" 241 

Scripture  Reading  and  Prayer— Dr.  Henry  van  Dyke, 
of  Princeton,  New  Jersey 242 

Hymn— "A  Mighty  Fortress  is  Our  God"    ....     246 

Sermon— Dr.  Charles  Frederic  Aked,  of  San  Francisco, 
California 247 

Hymn— "Nearer,  My  God,  to  Thee 262 

Hymn— "America" 263 

Benediction— Dr.  Charles  Frederic  Aked    ....     264 


%■- 

I 


4 


n^a 


LIST  OF  INSERTS 


VOLUME       ONE 


The  Founder 

As  a  young  man Frontispiece 

In  middle  life facing  page       94 

The  First  Quadrangle  OF  THE  University    .  ''         "        132 

The  General  Architectural  Plan     .      .      .  ''        "        133 

The  Invitation  to  the  Festival 

In  the  form  addressed  to  institutions       .      .      .  '* 
In  the  form  addressed  to  individuals        ..." 

Facsimiles  of  Some  of  the  Letters  Received 

The  University  of  Paris " 

The  University  of  Oxford *' 

The  University  of  Cambridge " 

The  University  of  Rome " 

The  University  of  Aberdeen *' 

The  Pontifical  Gregorian  University       ...  " 

The  University  of  Oviedo *' 

Harvard  University " 

The  Polish  University  of  Lemberg    ....  " 

The  Royal  Society  of  London " 

The  Royal  Prussian  Academy  of  Sciences     .      .  " 

Yale  University " 

The  Royal  Academy  of  Sciences  of  Bologna        .  " 

Princeton  University ** 

The  University  of  Pennsylvania " 

The  University  of  Wisconsin '' 

The  University  of  S5^dney " 

The  Technical  High  School  of  Zurich     .      .      .  ** 

Cornell  University ** 

The  University  of  Texas " 

The  Nobel  Foundation *' 

The  Carnegie  Institute  of  Technology    ..." 

The  British  Academy " 

The  Emperor  William  Association  for  the  Ad- 
vancement of  Science ** 

Cxiii] 


vni 

a 

17 

(( 

3 

(( 

10 

(( 

22 

(( 

32 

(t 

43 

(i 

50 

<( 

58 

(( 

68 

<< 

79 

(( 

86 

(( 

114 

(( 

122 

<( 

129 

<( 

140 

(< 

151 

(( 

158 

(( 

167 

(( 

174 

(( 

180 

(( 

197 

(( 

204 

if 

219 

(( 

222 

<( 


232 


£ 


^4 


DELEGATES  OF  UNIVERSITIES,  COLLEGES, 

AND  LEARNED  SOCIETIES, 

IN  THE  ORDER  OF  SENIORITY  OF  CHARTERS 

UNDER  WHICH  DEGREES 

ARE  CONFERRED 


c^ 


"I 


5 


I 


l» 


I) 


L'UN[VERSIT£  DE  PARIS 


A  L'INSTITUT  RICE 


Monsieur  le  President, 
Messieurs, 

UUniversite  de  Pam  envoie  son  salut  cb^  ses  uceux 
a  -voire  jeune  Iniiitut.  Conviee  a  uos  fites  d'inau^ration, 
elle  eft  heureme  de  s'apocier  a  vos  rejouij^ances  (ijr  de 
uom  adrepr  ses  cordiales  felicitations  pour  I'oeuvre  que 
vom  aveT^  si  hriUamment  realiiee. 

Les  souhaits  que  nom  formons  pour  la  proiherite  de 
votre  Iniiitut  re^oivent  une  chaleur  particuliere  de  la 
sympathie  seculaire  qui  exifle  entre  le  peuple  frangais 
i^  le  peuple  amemain.  Les  inoubliables  souvenirs  qui 
uniflent  les  deux  grandes  Kepuhliques  font  hattre  nos 
cceurs  d'un  mime  desir  de  justice,  de  liherte,  de  proves. 

Videe  de  liherte,  I' idee  de  proves  ont  preside  a  la  fon- 


\ 


\ 


clatiou  de  lotre  In^itnt  Ceff  en   i8c)i   qjie    William 
Marsh  Rice,  nattf  du  Mafiachmetts,  man  fixe  a  HonHon 
depuh  de  louoties  annees,  fit  part  a  qnelques  amis  choim 
du  dcsir  qiiH  avait  de  doter  sa  utile  adoptive  d'nn 
lunnut  oil  seraieut  enseigne's  Its  lettres,  les  sciences  C^  les 
arts.    II  souhaitait  que   toute  preoccupation    politique 
(^  tout  esprit  de  seek  fufkut  exclus  de  cet  Inffitut,  qui 
lie  devait  etre  anime  que  par  le  de'sir  pur  de  la  recherche 
(J^*  du  travail  11  forma  un  noyau  conflituc  par  une  dewi- 
doji%aine  de  truflees.  Dans  les  annees  qui  suivirent,  la 
mort  pt  dans  les  rangs  des  truHees  des  uides  que  des 
elections  comblerent  a  mesure.  L'ImTitut  Rice  s'clabora 
dans  les  conversations  de  ces  collahorateurs  de  la  premiere 
heure. 

^  En  njoo.  aprcs  la  difparition  de  William  Marsh  Rice 
Cr  une  [oh  en  pofiepon  des  dix  millions  dc  dollars 
attrihue's  a  la  jondation  par  le  genereux  donateur,  les 
truffees  s'adjoiguirent  le  profefieiir  Edgar  Odell  Lovett. 
de  rUniversite  Princeton,  auquel  je  suis  personnellemeut 
heureux  d'apporter  It  salut  de  VUniversitech  Paris. 

^  Le  President  Lovett  a  cons  acre"  tons  ses  efforts  a  la 
tdche  importante  qui  lui  etait  conpee.  II  a  uisite  les  priu- 
cipaux  etablifiements  d'enseiguement  scientifique  du 
monde,  c^  //  a  pn  ctahlir  avec  competence  ci^  en  toute 
conn  a  if ^a  nee  de  came  les  plans  de  -iotre  Imlitut.  Vos 
architedes  ont  ete  pour  lui  d'mtelligents  &  precieux 


{^  gra- 
urtnt 
cieux 

fS  toftr 

r//c  Ucs 


H   O^  CO 


collahorateurs.  S  tnSpirant  des  edipcts  du  Vitux  Monde 
meridional,  ils  ont  su  ohtentr  un  ensi  mblt  tmtt  a  la  fm 
adapte  aux  ne?e/Iite's  de  I'enseigucmtnt  ^  di  I'hvri^m 
(i^  fair  pouf  le  plaisir  des  yeux 

Tin  harmonie  avec  voire  climat,  Aj  // 
dense s  des  archmtlures  mediterranc 
tci.  Vous  ave\dfs  chines  italic ns  rnu 
jardins  arms  de  longs  cypres,  uom  av 
ai'ahes  aux  totts  plats,  un  campann 
des  hafitns  dejsints  a  la  manure  decof.uu 
articles  jardiniers  de  la  Rcnaiflanie. 
latement  teintes  de  vos  monta^nes.  k  ^an/t  dn  Texas 
mcttent  dans  T ensemble  une 
Cb^  sur  !e  fof/t  rjinrp'tf  7  nt^-,^  A/-..--. 

&"  se  develop^nni 
de  quoi  powraieni 
Vieux 
m'enrofe 

iMti,., 

quelle  ^ic  sou  pim  ;.  - 

pleine  campagne  cb^  ;«* 

terra  me  GT*  cJe  /'Ocean,  des  Lahorat 

tones,  des  hi ^i tuts  techniques 

heancoiij,  .,  apprendre  dans  /Vj 

dont  votre  hiTlitut  offre  un  modiLe  si  intiyijant;  c  til  un 


iUijunt 

■  (I 

mversftcs  dn 

Paris,  aui 


n\:iUi: , 


Ulti 


ti:  li4 

.       Ohserra 

■^'■//f  .:t  '  v:  17 i'.  nit].  ■ 

'iiilUClint   : 


lit 


■*h'fl<  f< 


Wiiltam 


it  rut-   ■-fj-ziZfi 


I  'iJi.j.-t 


'■'J  Ji/fmr 

Httmn  / 


'in 

;fff> 


cs  de  T/  hislrt/.t 

/r  f)f/f   //     /  -1     . 


^m  Ai 


p/rr  ir>   {rfn/y 


collaborate f (VS.  S'iufpirant  des  edifices  du  Vieux  Monde 
meridional,  ils  ont  sn  ohteuir  un  ensemble  tout  a  la  fcm 
adapte"  anx  necef^ite's  de  I'enseignement  (i^  de  l'h)gienc 
<i^  fait  pour  le  plaisir  des  yeux. 

En  harmonic  arec  uotre  dim  at,  les  lignes  les  plm  gra- 
de uses  des  architectures  wediterraneennes  se  retrouvent 
icL  Vous  ave\  des  cloitres  it  aliens  en  cad  rant  de  delicieux 
jardins  onus  de  longs  cypres,  torn  aie\de  blanches  tours 
arabes  aux  to  its  plats,  un  campanile,  des  pe  louses  ci" 
des  bapns  defines  a  la  maniere  de'corative  ^  nette  des 
articles  jardiniers  de  la  Kenaifance.  Les  marbres  deli- 
catement  teinte's  de  vos  montagnes,  le  granit  du  Texas 
mettent  dans  I'ensemble  une  note  somptueuse  &"  colore'e. 


& 


sur  le  tout  etincelle  lotre  beau  del 


Vous  ave\de  V efface,  (zi^  uos  JJniversites  s'c'difent 
<^  se  de'veloppent  sur  des  terrains  presque  uierges.  Ceff 
de  quoi  pourraient  zous  emier  les  lieilles  Universites  du 
Vieux  Monde;  &"  bien  que  I'Universite'  de  Paris,  qui 
?n'envoie  lers  lous,  ne  jo/t  plus  con f ne'e  au  quartier 
Latin,  sur  le  fane  de  la  colline  Sainte -Genevieve,  bien 
quelle  ne  soit  plus  toute  d  Paris  C^  quelle  pofede,  en 
pleine  campagne  (fy  jmque  sur  les  rivages  de  la  Medi- 
terrance  iy  de  I'Ocean,  des  Laboratoires ,  des  Observa- 
toires,  des  Inflituts  techniques,  —  nous  aions  ncanmoins 
beau  coup  d  apprendre  dans  les  Universite's  americaines 
dont  votre  Inflitut  off-e  un  modcle  si  interefant;  c  'esl  un 


m 


i) 


aveu  que  la  plm  ancknne  Vniversite  du  monde  doit  a  la 
plus  recente,  comme  un  hommage  a  uotre  efprit  pratique 
&"  a  I'ardeur  de  votre  T^le  scientifique.  Elle  fait  cet  aveu 
sans  confusion,  de  mime  qua  uotre  herceau  elle  vient 
non  pas  comme  une  fee  jalome,  mats  comme  une  aieule 
btenreiUante,  uous  souhaiter,  avec  une  cordiale  hienvenue, 
un  long  ir  glorieux  avenir. 

Paris,  le  lO  o6lohre  i^iz. 


Lc  Vicc-Re£leur, 
President  du  Consci!  dc  I'Univcrsitc  dc  Paris, 


■^ 


Lc  Professeur, 
Dclcguc  dc  I'LInivcrsirc  dc  Paris, 


X 


^/J 


IV 


LIST  OF  DELEGATES 

University  of  Paris 
Professor  Emile  Borel 

University  of  Rome 
Dean  Senator  Vito  Volterra 

University  of  Glasgow 
Professor  Sir  Henry  Jones 

University  of  Aberdeen 
William  Benton,  Esq. 

University  of  Edinburgh 
Dr.  William  Keiller 

University  of  Oviedo 
Professor  Rafael  Altamira  y  Crevea 

University  of  Amsterdam 
Professor  Hugo  de  Vries 

Harvard  University 
Dr.  Harry  Yandell  Benedict 

Kaiserl.  Leopoldinisch-Carolinische  Deutsche  Akademie  der 

Naturforscher 

Professor  Daniel  Vorlander 

Royal  Society  of  London 
Professor  Ernest  William  Brown 

University  of  Halle 
Professor  Daniel  Vorlander 

Yale  University 
Dr.  Jesse  Breland  Johnson 

1:3: 


I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

LIST  OF  DELEGATES 

Princeton  University 

Dean  William  Francis  Magie 
Professor  Henry  van  Dyke 

University  of  Pennsylvania 
Vice-Provost  Josiah  Harmar  Penniman 

American  Philosophical  Society 
held  at  Philadelphia  for  Promoting  Useful  Knowledge 

Professor  Sir  William  Ramsay 

Columbia  University 
Provost  William  Henry  Carpenter 

Royal  Society  of  Arts 
James  Douglas,  Esq. 

Broivn  University 
Professor  Wilfred  Harold  Munro 

Dartmouth  College 
Dr.  Lewis  Henry  Haney 

The  United  Chapters  of  Phi  Beta  Kappa 
Dr.  Robert  Sharp 

Societa  Italiana  delle  Scienze  detta  dei  XL 
Professor  Senator  Vito  Volterra 

Royal  Academy  of  Sciences  of  Turin 
Professor  Senator  Vito  Volterra 

Royal  Society  of  Edinburgh 
Dr.  Alexander  Macfarlane 

St.  Johns  College 
President  Thomas  Fell 

College  of  Charleston 
President  Harrison  Randolph 

[4] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

LIST  OF  DELEGATES 

University  of  Pittsburgh 

Chancellor  Samuel  Black  McCormick 
Professor  Morris  Knowles 

University  of  North  Carolina 
Dr.  William  James  Battle 

Williams  College 
President  Harry  Augustus  Garfield 

Bowdoin  College 
William  Wingate  Hubbard,  Esq. 

Ecole  Polytechnique  of  Paris 
Professor  Emile  Borel 

University  of  Tennessee 
President  Brown  Ayres 

Union  College 
Senator  Joseph  Eugene  Ransdell 

The  Glasgow  and  West  of  Scotland  Technical  College 

Professor  Sir  Henry  Jones 

Royal  Technical  High  School  of  Stockholm 
Professor  Gustaf  Waif  rid  Petersson 

Library  of  Congress 
Dr.  Gaillard  Hunt 

University  of  South  Carolina 
President  Samuel  Chiles  Mitchell 

University  of  Maryland 
Dr.  Henry  Hilgartner 

The  Academy  of  Natural  Sciences  of  Philadelphia 

Professor  Hugo  de  Vries 
Dr.  Allen  John  Smith 


"'^■^^ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

LIST  OF  DELEGATES 

The  Theological  Seminary  of  the  Presbyterian  Church  at 

Princeton  J  New  Jersey 

Rev.  Francis  Powell  Cheek 

Georgetown  University 
Hiram  M.  Garwood,  Esq. 

Cambridge  Philosophical  Society 
Professor  Ernest  William  Brown 

Central  University  of  Kentucky 
President  Frederick  William  Hinitt 

University  of  Cincinnati 
President  Charles  William  Dabney 

University  of  Virginia 

President  Edwin  Anderson  Alderman 
Professor  William  Holding  Echols 

Royal  Astronomical  Society 
Professor  Ernest  William  Brown 

Amherst  College 
Dr.  William  Tyler  Mather 

McGill  University 
Dr.  Harold  Albert  Wilson 

Royal  Society  of  New  South  Wales 
Professor  William  Henry  Warren 

Rhode  Island  Historical  Society 
President  Wilfred  Harold  Munro 

The  Franklin  Institute 
Dr.  Robert  Bowie  Owens 

Western  Reserve  University 
Rev.  Edward  Bingham  Wright 

1^1 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

LIST  OF  DELEGATES 

American  Peace  Society 
Dr.  Samuel  Palmer  Brooks 

University  College,  London 
Professor  Sir  William  Ramsay 

New  York  University 
Dr.  Edwin  Lewis  Stephens 

Oberlin  College 
Professor  Maynard  Mayo  Metcalf 

Tulane  University 

President  Robert  Sharp 

Dean  Isadore  Dyer 

Professor  Brandt  van  Blarcom  Dixon 

Professor  William  Benjamin  Gregory 

Mount  Holyoke  College 
Miss  Dorothy  D.  Gamsby 

University  of  London 
Professor  Sir  William  Ramsay 

Davidson  College 
Dr.  James  Blanton  Wharey 

University  of  Michigan 
Regent  Frank  Bruce  Leland 

American  Statistical  Association 
Dr.  Lewis  Henry  Haney 

University  of  Missouri 
President  Albert  Ross  Hill 

Bethany  College 

President  Thomas  Ellsworth  Cramblet 
Oscar  Wells,  Esq. 

IT} 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

LIST  OF  DELEGATES 

American  Oriental  Society 
Dr.  Edwin  Whitfield  Fay 

Baylor  University 
President  Samuel  Palmer  Brooks 
Professor  Jesse  Breland  Johnson 

German  Physical  Society 
Dr.  Arthur  Louis  Day 

Mount  Union  College 
John  Charles  Harris,  Esq. 

American  Association  for  the  Advancement  of  Science 
Dr.  Harry  Yandell  Benedict 

College  of  the  City  of  New  York 
President  John  Huston  Finley 

University  of  Wisconsin 
Professor  George  Cary  Comstock 

University  of  Sydney 
Professor  William  Henry  Warren 

University  of  Minnesota 
John  B.  Hawley,  Esq. 

Victoria  University  of  Manchester 
Dr.  James  Edwin  Thompson 

American  Society  of  Civil  Engineers 

Warren  M.  Archibald,  Esq. 

Edward  B.  Cushing,  Esq. 

Joseph  M.  Howe,  Esq. 

Trinity  College 

President  William  Preston  Frew 

Dr.  Robert  Adger  Law 


^  i 


I 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

LIST  OF  DELEGATES 

Washington  University 
Chancellor  David  Franklin  Houston 

National  Education  Association 
Robert  Harrison  Wilson,  Esq. 

University  of  the  South 
Rev.  Arthur  Howard  Noll 

University  of  California 
Dr.  Sidney  Edward  Mezes 

Alassachusetts  Institute  of  Technology 

President  Richard  Cockburn  MacLaurin 

Charles  Wetmore  Kellogg,  Esq. 

Vassar  College 
Mrs.  John  Loomis 

Iowa  State  College 
Frederick  William  Mally,  Esq. 

University  of  Maine 

President  Robert  Judson  Aley 
Charles  Adelbert  jMorse,  Esq. 

Cornell  University 
Professor  Edward  Leamington  Nichols 

Worcester  Polytechnic  Institute 
Charles  H.  Dunbar,  Esq. 

Lehigh  University 
President  Henry  Sturgis  Drinker 

United  States  Bureau  of  Education 
Dr.  Kendric  Charles  Babcock 

University  of  Illinois 
President  Edmund  Janes  James 

1:9] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

LIST  OF  DELEGATES 

American  Museum  of  Natural  History 

Dr.  William  Diller  Matthew 

American  Philological  Association 
Dr.  Edwin  Whitfield  Fay 

Southivestern  University 

President  Charles  McTyeire  Bishop 
Professor  Albert  Shipp  Pegues 

Trinity  University 
Professor  Francis  Powell  Cheek 

Newnham  College  {Cambridge) 
Miss  Gertrude  M.  Hirst 

A?nerican  Institute  of  Mining  Engineers 
Edwin  Theodore  Dumble,  Esq. 

Stevens  Institute  of  Technology 

President  Alexander  Crombie  Humphreys 

William  James  Jennings,  Esq. 

University  of  Adelaide 
Professor  T.  Brailsford  Robertson 

University  of  Arkansas 
Dr.  William  Seneca  Sutton 

Vanderbilt  University 
Chancellor  James  Hampton  Kirkland 

Virginia  Polytechnic  Institute 
President  Paul  Brandon  Barringer 

Texas  Christian  University 
President  Frederick  Doyle  Kershner 

George  Peabody  College  for  Teachers 
President  Bruce  Ryburn  Payne 


<MC  VICC<CHANC«(.4.0^ 


OXFORD. 


"    -rx-^    ^'-.iT  ■ 


I  beg   to  timnY.  you' 


your  kindri'^'Be   1 


^h1« 


T,o  send  &  d?loge 


f-  f'\ 


tng  of  tn^  Ficp:   Ins«!t  itut*e 


n^?xt. , 


a  r'^gT-pt  that  mm   ^ihe  Vacation  i»  now  'c^s: 


no  opportunity  of  brineln.g  tr*e  Fitter  bf^fc  .  ^a^-   C 


oif*    +  Vie 


p-rw  *  ?■  v    v.^-r.-^*-.'    +>»^    1-^«..-.<t.H^^*,.  ~ 


'XT.    ■=» 


w- 


•ppolnt  a  delegate.        I  am  very  •orry  that  ir^   » 
froxE  Aoceptii^  yoar  kind   lnvi.c.      >n.. 


late  to 


»refcre,   debarred 


Tliiffiklng  you  ''* 


'*»'»^         V»  <^?  1 


;■  v  >   and   '^xpr 


b«na,ir  of 


till!  Unlvemity  our  oongratulationa  aad  goo-l  wi# 


to  remain. 


I   iMkV 


Your  obedient  Her. a.  .., 


t^Viif^U^JL. 


p 


The  President  of  th-  Fire  In«titate 


FROM   -^HC  VICe-CHANCCLLOR. 


BRASENOSE    COLLEGE, 
OXFORD. 


July  11,  1912 


iily   d«ar  Sir, 


I  beg  to  than]-  you  for  your  Vindnees  in  Inviting  this  University 
to  send  a  delegate  to  the  opening  of  the  F.ice  Institute  in  October 
next.    I  much  regret  that  as  the  Vacation  is  now  b«gun  th-re  will  be  ' 


no  opportunity  of  bringing  the  matter  before  the  Council  of  the  U: 


ersity  before  the  beginning  of  next  Term,  when  it  will  b^ 


hiv- 


'00  late  to 


appoint  a  delegate.   l  a:r.  very  sorry  that  we  are,  therefore,  debarr 
from  accepting  your  kind  invitation. 

Thanking  you  for  your  courtesy,  and  expressing  on  behalf  of 


ed 


this  University  our  congratulations  and  good  wishes,  I  have 


5  the  honour 


to  renmin. 


Yo'or  obedient  servant. 


^'r-if.tS^JU^^, 


PO] 


The  President  of  the  Pice  Institute. 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

LIST  OF  DELEGATES 

fVellesley  College 
Mrs.  Gentry  Waldo 

Agricultural  and  Mechanical  College  of  Texas 
Dean  Charles  Puryear 

American  Chemical  Society 
Dr.  Henry  Winston  Harper 

The  Johns  Hopkins  University 
President  Ira  Remsen 

American  Bar  Association 
Robert  Edward  Lee  Saner,  Esq. 

Creighton  University 
Dean  Alpheus  Hugh  Hippie 

Sam  Houston  Normal  Institute 
President  Harry  Fishburne  Estill 

University  College,  Dundee 
William  Mackenzie,  Esq. 

University  of  Southern  California 
President  George  Finley  Bovard 

Bryn  Mawr  College 
Dr.  Lindley  Miller  Keasbey 

American  Society  of  Mechanical  Engineers 

Dr.  Alexander  Crombie  Humphreys 
William  Buckhout  Tuttle,  Esq. 

Drake  University 
President  Hill  McClelland  Bell 

The  Society  of  Chemical  Industry 
Dr.  George  William  Gray 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

LIST  OF  DELEGATES 

University  of  Texas 
President  Sidney  Edward  Mezes 

American  Institute  of  Electrical  Engineers 
Fred  Atwood  Jones,  Esq. 

The  Austin  Presbyterian  Theological  Seminary 
President  Robert  Ernest  Vinson 

Texas  State  Department  of  Education 
Superintendent  Francis  Marion  Bralley 

American  Economic  Association 
Dr.  Edmund  Thornton  Miller 

Goucher  College 
Mrs.  John  W.  Fairey 

United  Chapters  of  Tau  Beta  Pi 
Dr.  Brown  Ay  res 

H.  Sophie  Newcomb  Memorial  College 
President  Brandt  van  Blarcom  Dixon 

Michigan  College  of  Mines 
President  Fred  Walter  McNair 

University  of  Nevada 
President  Joseph  Edward  Stubbs 

Catholic  University  of  America 
Rev.  James  Martin  Kerwin 

Geological  Society  of  America 
Professor  Frederic  William  Simonds 

Georgia  School  of  Technology 
President  Kenneth  Gordon  Matheson 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

LIST  OF  DELEGATES 

National  Geographic  Society 

Lewis  Randolph  Bryan,  Esq. 
Mrs.  Harris  Masterson 

American  Academy  of  Political  and  Social  Science 
H.  Baldwin  Rice,  Esq. 

Barnard  College 
Dr.  William  Henry  Carpenter 

Clark  University 
Dr.  Alexander  Caswell  Ellis 

Daniel  Baker  College 
President  Tinsley  Penick  Junkin 

General  Federation  of  Women's  Clubs 
Mrs.  Percy  V.  Pennybacker 

Howard  Payne  College 
President  John  Strother  Humphreys 

North  Carolina  College  of  Agriculture  and  Mechanic  Arts 
President  Daniel  Harvey  Hill 

American  Microscopical  Society 
Dr.  Creighton  Wellman 

Leland  Stanford  Junior  University 
President  David  Starr  Jordan 

American  Jewish  Historical  Society 
Rabbi  Wolf  Willner 

The  University  of  Chicago 
President  Harry  Pratt  Judson 

University  of  New  Mexico 

Regent  Richard  William  Dickerson  Bryan 
President  David  Ross  Boyd 

['33 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

LIST  OF  DELEGATES 

University  of  Oklahoma 
President  Stratton  Duluth  Brooks 

American  Mathematical  Society 
Dr.  Milton  Brockett  Porter 

National  Association  of  State  Universities 
Dr.  Sidney  Edward  Mezes 

Southwestern  Louisiana  Industrial  Institute 
President  Edwin  Lewis  Stephens 

American  Physical  Society 
Professor  William  Francis  Magic 

Carnegie  Institute  of  Technology 

Director  Arthur  Arton  Hamerschlag 
Secretary  William  P.  Field 

American  Electrochemical  Society 
Professor  Eugene  Paul  Schoch 

Clark  College 
Dr.  Alexander  Caswell  Ellis 

General  Education  Board 
Dr.  Harry  Pratt  Judson 

College  of  Industrial  Arts 
President  William  Bennett  Bizzell 

The  South  African  School  of  Mines  and  Technology 

Hennen  Jennings,  Esq. 

Germanistic  Society  of  America 
Professor  William  Henry  Carpenter 

Dropsie  College  for  Hebrew  and  Cognate  Learning 

President  Cyrus  Adler 

D4] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

LIST  OF  DELEGATES 

University  of  Florida 
President  Albert  Alexander  Murphree 

The  Conference  for  Education  in  Texas 
Secretary  Lee  Clark 

Oklahoma  State  Department  of  Education 
Superintendent  Robert  Harrison  Wilson 

American  Nature  Study  Society 
Secretary  Elliot  Rowland  Downing 

Oklahoma  College  for  Women 
President  James  Burnette  Eskridge 

American  Federation  of  Arts 

Mrs.  Jennie  Scott  Scheuber 

Professor  William  Woodward 

University  of  the  Philippines 
Frank  Russell  White,  Esq. 

Organization  for  the  Enlargement  and  Extension  by  the  State  of 

Texas  of  its  Institutions  of  Higher  Education 

Robert  Lynn  Batts,  Esq. 

Reed  College 
President  William  Trufant  Foster 


1:^53 


;:i 


-I  ^ 


V 

<%. 


\ 


N^ 


^ 


^N 


V 


X 


N 


^ 


,vy 


^ 


l^N 


V 


^V 


>^ 


^.^ 


K^ 


\> 


\ 


^^ 


X- 


PROGRAM 

OF  THE  FORMAL  OPENING  OF 

THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

A   UNIVERSITY 

OF 

LIBERAL  AND  TECHNICAL  LEARNING 
FOUNDED  IN  THE  CITY  OF  HOUSTON  TEXAS   BY 

WILLIAM  MARSH  RICE 

AND  DEDICATED  BY  HLM  TO  THE 

ADVANCEMENT  OF  LETTERS  SCIENCE  AND  ART 


THURSDAY  FRIDAY  AND  SATURDAY 

THE  TENTH  ELEVENTH  AND  TWELFTH  DAYS  OF  OCTOBER 

NINETEEN  HUNDRED  AND  TWELVE 


EDGAR  ODELL  LOVETT:  PRESIDENT 
THE  BOARD  OF  TRUSTEES 

JAMES  ADDISON   BAKER:    CHAIRMAN 
JAMES  EVERETT  McASHAN:   VICE-CHAIRMAN 
EMANUEL  RAPHAEL:  SECRETARY     BENJAMIN  BOTTS  RICE:  TREASURER 
WILLIAM  MARSH   RICE  JR.      CESAR  MAURICE  LOMBARDl 

EDGAR  ODELL  LOVETT 

CI?] 


^ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Thursday,  October  io,  19 12 

8  .-30  A.M.  At  the  Bender  Hotel  an  Informal  Breakfast  to 
the  Lecturers,  Delegates,  and  other  Guests  by  the  Trus- 
tees of  the  Institute 

10:30  A.M.  In  the  Faculty  Chamber  of  the  Institute  read 
or  presented  by  title  the  Inaugural  Lectures  of 

Prof essor  Rafael  Altamira  y  Crevea,  of  Madrid,  Spain 

The  general  ideas  in  the  history  of  human  progress.  Their 
application  to  the  political  institutions  of  society.  Their  illus- 
tration in  the  Spanish  backgrounds  of  American  civilization 

Professor  Hugo  de  Fries,  of  Amsterdam,  Holland 

The  ideals  of  a  naturalist.  Mutations  in  heredity.  Geograph- 
ical botany.    Modern  cytological  problems 

Professor  John  WiUia^n  Mackail,  of  London,  England 
Three  lectures  on  the  task  and  function  of  poetry  in  modern  life 

Professor  Frederik  Carl  St^rmer,  of  Chris tiania,  Norway 
Three  lectures  on  recent  developments  in  cosmical  physics,  with 
special  reference  to  the  theory  of  magnetic  storms 

I  :oo  P.M.  At  the  Banquet  Hall  of  the  City  Auditorium  a 
Luncheon  in  honor  of  the  Guests  of  the  Institute  by 
the  Mayor  and  the  Commissioners  of  the  Municipal 
Government  of  the  City  of  Houston.  Responses  by 
several  delegates  to  addresses  of  welcome  by  the  Gov- 
ernor of  Texas,  the  Mayor  of  Houston,  and  the  Chair- 
man of  the  Board  of  Trustees  of  the  Institute 

3:00  P.M.     In  the  Faculty  Chamber  of  the  Institute  read 
or  presented  by  title  the  Inaugural  Lectures  of 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Professor  Emile  Borel,  of  Paris,  France 

Une  conference  sur  les  theories  moleculaires  et  les  mathema- 
tiques.  Trois  lecons  sur  la  theorie  des  series  divergentes  et  ses 
applications  a  la  definition  des  fonctions  monogenes 

Senator  Benedetto  Croce,  of  Naples,  Italy 

II  problema  dell'  arte  e  della  critica— Quattro  lezioni:— "Che 
cosa  e  Parte?,,  Pregiudizii  intorno  all'  arte.  II  posto  dell'  arte 
nello  spirito  e  nella  societa  umana.  La  critica  e  la  storia 
deir  arte 

Professor  Sir  Flenry  Jones,  of  Glasgow,  Scotland 

Three  lectures  on  philosophical  landmarks:  being  a  survey  of 
the  recent  gains  and  the  present  problems  of  reflective  thought 

Privy  Councilor  Baron  Dairoku  Kikuchl,  of  Tokyo,  Japan 
Three  lectures  on  the  introduction  of  Western  learning  into 
Japan 

5:00  P.M.  In  the  Academic  Court  cf  the  Administration 
Building  an  Informal  Garden  Party  at  the  conclusion 
of  the  lectures  of  the  afternoon 

8:30  P.M.  At  the  Majestic  Theater  a  popular  illustrated 
Lecture  on  the  Ideals  of  a  Naturalist,  by  Professor 
Hugo  de  Vries,  of  the  University  of  Amsterdam 

9:30  P.M.  At  their  home,  141 6  Main  Street,  a  Reception 
in  honor  of  the  Guests  of  the  Institute  by  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  James  Addison  Baker 

Friday,  October  ii,  19 12 

8  :30  A.M.  At  the  Bender  Hotel  an  Informal  Breakfast 
tendered  the  Guests  of  the  Institute  by  the  President 
and  Directors  of  the  Houston  Chamber  of  Commerce 


I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

10:30  A.M.     In  the  Faculty  Chamber  of  the  Institute  read 
or  presented  by  title  the  Inaugural  Lectures  of 

Privy  Councilor  Professor  TVilhelm  Ostwald,  of  Leipsic, 

Germany 

Das  System  der  Wissenschaften.  Erfinder,  Entdecker  und  Or- 
ganisatoren.  Die  Prinzipien  der  Erziehung.  Die  Grundbe- 
griffe  der  Chemie 

The  late  Professor  Henri  Poincare,  of  Paris,  France 
Three  lectures  on  the  philosophy  of  the  sciences 

Professor  Sir  JVilUam  Ramsay,  of  London,  England 
Three  lectures  on  transmutation :  some  deductions  from  modern 
views  concerning  atoms  and  molecules 

Professor  Senator  Vito  Volterra,  of  Rome,  Italy 

A  memoir  in  appreciation  of  the  mathematical  work  and  scien- 
tific influence  of  Henri  Poincare.  Three  lectures  on  the  prog- 
ress of  science,  in  particular  its  advancement  in  Italy 

I  :oo  P.M.  At  the  Thalian  Club  a  Luncheon  in  honor  of 
the  Guests  of  the.  Institute  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jonas 
Shearn  Rice 

3:00  P.M.  At  the  Majestic  Theater  a  Concert  by  the 
Kneisel  Quartet  of  New  York  to  the  Guests  and 
Friends  of  the  Institute  by  the  Trustees 

5  :oo  P.M.  At  their  home,  'The  Oaks/'  after  the  Matinee 
Concert,  a  Garden  Party  to  the  Guests  of  the  Institute 
by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Edwin  Brewington  Parker 

8:30   P.M.     At  the   Institute,   in  honor  of  the   Inaugural 
Lecturers,  a  Chamber  Concert  by  the  Kneisel  Quartet 
in  the  Faculty  Room,  to  be  followed  by  a  Supper  at  the 
.     Residential  Hall  Commons 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Saturday,  October  12,  191 2 

9:30  A.M.  From  the  Residential  Hall  a  Procession  of  the 
Delegates  and  Guests  in  academic  costume  to  the  Aca- 
demic Court  of  the  Administration  Building.  Inaugu- 
ral poem  by  Dr.  Henry  van  Dyke  and  dedicatory 
addresses  by  the  Chief  Justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of 
Texas,  the  Bishop  of  Tennessee,  and  the  President  of 
the  Institute 


12:30  P.M.  At  the  entrance  to  the  South  Wing  of  the 
Residential  Hall  a  photograph  of  the  assembled  Lec- 
turers and  Delegates 


I  :oo  P.M.  At  the  Institute  Commons  a  Luncheon  to  the 
Guests  of  the  Institute.  Congratulatory  addresses 
from  universities  at  home  and  abroad,  and  from 
learned  societies,  foreign  and  national 


4:00  P.M.     At  the  Houston  Country  Club  a  Farewell  Re- 
ception by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Edgar  Odell  Lovett 


6:30  P.M.  From  the  Houston  Country  Club  a  special  train 
to  convey  the  Guests  of  the  Institute  to  Galv^eston  to 
receive  the  hospitality  of  the  Hotel  Galvez  at  the  hands 
of  the  Trustees  of  the  Institute 


8  :oo  P.M.     At  the  Hotel  Galvez  a  Shore-supper  and  Smoker 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Sunday,  October  13,  191 2 

8  :oo  A.M.     At  the  Hotel  Galvez  Breakfast 

9  :30  A.M.     Special  train  from  Galveston  to  Houston 

11:00  A.M.  In  the  City  Auditorium  a  Religious  Service 
with  Sermon  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Charles  Frederic  Aked, 
of  San  Francisco 


C"] 


A^^ 


^sv^^  o"^  OA^,^^ 


'o. 


■4  4^"' 


2^    ^S^^t^AA^.^^     ^   // Z^ 


Jit    ##•  ^'' 


0  >*VA*«,A ' 


/ 


*>■*    ■*^ 


44L/' • '"W**™"^*'  ■»*< 


(^fc,   /c^^  V***"^*^ 


'?' 


V  <*•».  .^»-«"  -■«■ 


tf"^ 


I 


T   T  .  J 


I  i.\  o  i  i  X  w  1  i^ 


',    IQ12 


,'     r^  T*  •■"'  "?  liT  !  "^  "Zf 


u  I  iouston 


Service 
vked, 


_^,..>^;  -  0^.,,,^ 


St'^crX^    rc^^^^-To^^ 


•o/ 


2Z 


^-^c<^.    J^.> 


J    r 


V« 


o^.^     ;t^     S  C^    ^r^  .^    ^ 


^ 


5^ 


it.  ^t<.  e^/^^c^  /C«^  ^^  a^^^A  V.  rc^^A..^o.  ^<» 


«»^v6.r  »>    Cm 


U  12.    ^      ^.<^^ 


t 

^6C^ /^  «^j c^^  cA  ^^5^^  ^5^^^  .^v..^  .^.^:.^ 


X/>9>*->«-^^ 


7? 


^ 


ii 


ii 


ADDRESSES  OF 

WELCOME  AND  RESPONSES 

AT  A  LUNCHEON  GIVEN  AT  THE 

CITY  AUDITORIUM 

BY  THE  MUNICIPAL  GOVERNMENT 

OF  THE  CITY  OF  HOUSTON 


ADDRESSES  OF  WELCOME  AND  RESPONSES  AT  A 
LUNCHEON  GIVEN  AT  THE  CITY  AUDITORIUM 
BY  THE  MUNICIPAL  GOVERNMENT  OF  THE  CITY 
OF  HOUSTON 

Mayor  Rice:  Ladies  and  Gentlemen — This  day  marks 
an  epoch  in  the  history  of  our  city.  As  head  of  the  munici- 
pal government  I  have  the  pleasant  privilege  of  extending 
a  hearty  welcome  to  our  guests  by  whose  presence  the  day  is 
made  historic.  We  are  profoundly  grateful  to  the  distin- 
guished gentlemen  who  have  come  across  the  seas  to  do 
honor  to  our  city  and  State  on  this  occasion.  Equally  grate- 
ful are  we  to  the  many  citizens  of  our  great  republic  and  to 
our  fellow-citizens  of  Texas  who  are  assembled  here  in  the 
name  of  civilization. 

Though  Houston  is  a  comparatively  young  town,  we  have 
the  energy  and  progressive  spirit  by  which  every  young  city 
in  America,  I  believe,  is  characterized,  and  it  gives  me  un- 
told satisfaction  to  know  that  in  the  commercial  strife  inci- 
dent to  the  great  development  of  our  country  we  still  have 
the  ability  to  recognize  the  necessity  of  cultivating  the  mind 
of  man  and  giving  him  broad  and  thorough  education.  Of 
the  institution  which  is  opened  to-day  modesty  forbids  me  to 
speak.  To  those  who  are  going  to  make  it  a  success  and  to 
those  who  have  made  great  colleges  a  success  I  leave  the 
expression  of  opinions  which  I  might  hesitate  to  form.  But 
to  all  the  distinguished  guests  of  the  new  university  I  desire 
to  say  that  although  our  city  is  small,  as  cities  are  measured, 
and  thus  unable  to  offer  many  of  the  entertainments  and 
attractions  of  larger  metropolitan  cities,  the  hospitality  we 
offer  you  comes  from  our  hearts,  and  our  desire  to  make 
your  visit  a  pleasant  one  is  not  to  be  measured  in  any  respect 
by  the  size  or  ways  of  the  town,  but  by  the  ways  and  size  of 
the  human  heart  itself. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

I  now  have  the  pleasure,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  of  intro- 
ducing to  you  the  chairman  of  the  Board  of  Trustees  of  the 
Rice  Institute,  a  gentleman  of  high  standing  in  this  commu- 
nity, who  has  done  a  great  work  in  its  behalf — Mr.  James 
A.  Baker  of  Houston. 

Mr.  James  A.  Baker:  Your  Excellency  the  Governor, 
your  Honor  the  Mayor,  and  you  my  Friends  and  Guests  of 
the  Rice  Institute—!  am  commissioned  by  the  Rice  Institute, 
whose  dedication  is  to  letters,  science,  and  art,  to  extend  to 
you,  collectively  and  individually,  a  cordial  welcome,  not 
only  to  the  halls  and  home  of  the  new  institution,  but  also  to 
the  homes  and  hearts  of  the  people  of  the  whole  city  of 
Houston. 

As  America  a  little  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago 
achieved  her  national  independence  and  established  on  her 
eastern  shores  an  asylum  for  those  seeking  liberty,  so,  too, 
have  we,  through  the  magnificent  generosity  of  William 
Marsh  Rice,  established  in  the  far  Southwest  the  Rice  Insti- 
tute, an  asylum  of  learning;  and  in  the  name  of  this  new 
university  I  extend  a  welcome  to  all  to  come  and  drink  from 
the  fountains  of  knowledge  which  have  been  provided  for 
this  festal  occasion. 

And  especially  do  we  extend  a  glad  welcome  to  those  of 
our  guests  who  have  come  to  us  from  foreign  lands. 

A  joyous  welcome  indeed  to  the  representatives  of  the 
great  French  Republic;  for  it  was  she  who  more  than  a  cen- 
tury ago  recognized  the  independence  of  this  country  and 
gave  to  America  the  brilliant  Lafayette,  who  in  turn  gave  us 
generously  of  his  blood  and  fortune,  that  the  spirit  of  liberty 
might  flourish  upon  our  shores. 

An  equally  warm  and  cordial  welcome  to  the  representa- 
tives of  the  great  German  Empire— the  Fatherland.     She 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

not  only  furnished  us  a  distinguished  soldier  who  fought 
with  our  forefathers  the  battles  of  our  Revolution,  but  she 
has  freely  given  us  thousands  upon  thousands  of  the  sturdy 
citizenship  of  our  people,  who  have  cultivated  the  waste 
fields  of  the  State  and  nation  until  they  bloom  as  the  rose. 

A  warm  and  joyous  welcome  to  the  distinguished  repre- 
sentatives of  imperial  Spain,  for  to  her  we  are  indebted  for 
the  patronage  of  the  intrepid  discoverer  of  America.  In 
the  heartiness  of  this  welcome  we  wish  you  to  feel  that  all 
of  the  wounds  inflicted  by  the  late  unpleasantness  between 
Spain  and  America  have  long  since  been  healed  in  the  recol- 
lection of  the  bravery  and  the  heroism  of  the  soldiers  of 
both  armies. 

And  a  threefold  welcome  to  the  distinguished  representa- 
tives of  grand  old  England  and  merry  old  Scotland.  In 
coming  to  America  you  come  among  us  as  kinsmen  who  are 
flesh  of  our  flesh  and  blood  of  our  blood.  All  the  years 
which  lie  between  1776  and  this  year  191 2  have  only  served 
to  teach  us  mutual  sympathy  and  to  strengthen  the  bonds 
that  bind  our  hearts  to  our  mother-country. 

Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  one  and  all,  to  the  hearts  and 
homes  of  our  people. 

Mayor  Rice  :  It  is  my  pleasure  to  introduce  to  this  audi- 
ence the  Governor  of  Texas;  and  when  I  say  the  Governor 
of  Texas  I  mean  the  man  who  governs  the  largest  area  of 
land  as  a  State  in  the  American  Union,  and  who,  as  a  typical 
American,  stands  before  the  people  of  the  United  States  as 
the  chief  executive  of  this  great  commonwealth — the  Hon- 
orable O.  B.  Colquitt,  Governor  of  Texas. 

Governor  O.  B.  Colquitt:  Mr.  Mayor,  Guests  of  the 
Rice  Institute,  of  the  City  of  Houston,  and  of  the  State  of 
Texas,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen— Tht  most  humble  citizen  of 


Or' 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Texas  may  enjoy  the  privilege  of  being  governor  of  this 
State,  and  on  this  occasion  I  feel  myself  to  be  the  most 
humble  of  the  humble.  I  am  glad  to  be  present  on  this  occa- 
sion. I  feel  that  I  am  indeed  fortunate  in  being  present.  As 
chief  executive  of  this  State  I  am  proud  to  come  to  Houston 
and  welcome  the  representatives  of  American  and  foreign 
universities,  distinguished  scholars  and  scientists  of  England, 
France,  and  Holland,  of  Germany,  Italy,  and  Spain,  who 
have  come  to  participate  in  the  inauguration  of  the  Rice 
Institute. 

Within  seventeen  miles  of  this  city  is  the  San  Jacinto 
battle-field,  where  the  Republic  of  Texas  was  born.  In  this 
city  of  Houston,  which  used  to  be  the  capital  of  the  State, 
within  three  blocks  of  this  auditorium,  the  Congress  of  the 
Republic  of  Texas  used  to  assemble  in  a  log  cabin,  and  to 
that  log  cabin  the  nations  of  the  earth  sent  their  representa- 
tives in  recognition  of  the  republic.  And  now,  in  these  latter 
days,  you  have  the  Rice  Institute,  a  great  private  institution 
magnificently  housed  for  the  public  good,  and  the  nations  of 
the  earth  send  their  representatives  here  to  welcome  it  into 
the  fold  of  educational  institutions. 

With  a  handful  of  men  under  the  leadership  of  Sam 
Houston,  the  independence  of  the  republic  was  achieved  in 
1836.  Since  that  day  the  progress  of  the  American  people 
has  been  truly  wonderful.  The  progress  of  the  people  of 
Texas  has  been  even  greater.  We  have  builded  without 
assistance  a  magnificent  civilization.  I  say  without  assis- 
tance, for  even  William  Marsh  Rice's  splendid  contribution 
was  a  product  of  Texas,  because,  although  a  native  of 
Massachusetts,  he  came  to  Texas  in  his  early  boyhood  and 
here  made  his  fortune  and  his  career. 

I  am  happy  to  welcome  you  to  Texas  because  Texas  is 
made  up  of  people  from  all  the  nations,  and  some  of  the 


\ 

i 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

best  people  we  have  are  among  those  who  have  come  from 
other  nations.  I  am  proud  to  say  that  my  own  mother's 
family  came  from  Holland,  and  that  the  adjutant-general 
of  my  staff  is  an  Englishman. 

I  am  proud,  my  friends,  of  the  State  of  Texas.  I  am 
proud  of  its  magnificent  territory,  proud  of  the  progress  that 
we  are  making  in  educational  matters;  and  I  want  to  say  to 
you  that  as  governor  of  Texas  I  am  proud  of  the  form  of  its 
government  and  of  the  government  of  this  nation,  the  gov- 
ernment of  Washington  and  Jefferson,  of  Madison  and 
Franklin.  They  founded  a  government  based  on  a  written 
constitution,  written  for  the  purpose  of  defining  and  limiting 
the  power  of  the  government.  Freedom  of  conscience,  free- 
dom of  religion,  the  right  of  each  man  to  listen  to  the  dictates 
of  his  own  conscience,  these  are  the  proudest  heritage  of 
American  citizenship  enjoyed  under  this  constitutional  gov- 
ernment. And  I  want  to  say,  without  disparagement  to  any 
other  nation,  that  there  has  been  more  advancement  in 
science  since  the  Declaration  of  American  Independence 
than  there  was  during  six  thousand  years  before. 

As  I  said  a  moment  ago,  the  capital  of  this  State,  of  the 
Republic  of  Texas,  used  to  stand  within  three  blocks  of 
where  you  are  now  sitting.  Representatives  of  foreign  na- 
tions, of  the  French  Government  and  of  the  English  and 
German  empires,  came  to  Houston  to  represent  their  people 
at  the  capital  of  the  Republic  of  Texas.  In  the  meantime, 
we  had  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  American  Union  for 
entrance;  our  knocking  was  finally  answered,  and  we  became 
a  part  of  this  Union,  and  to-day  we  are  the  proudest  part  of 
these  United  States. 

The  Mayor  of  the  city  of  Houston  was  very  modest  in- 
deed when  he  told  us  that  Houston  is  a  small  city.  I  want 
to  say  that  Houston  is  not  a  small  city,  and  I  welcome  you 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

not  only  to  the  largest  State  in  the  Union,  but  to  the  largest- 
hearted  municipality  you  will  find  between  the  rising  and  the 
setting  of  the  sun.    And  now  I  want  to  invite  those  of  you 
who  are  looking  for  a  haven  of  prosperity,  a  haven  of  politi- 
cal and  religious  peace,  to  make  your  permanent  residence  in 
Texas.     We  do  not  ask  your  religion,  we  do  not  ask  your 
politics,  we  do  not  ask  you  where  you  graduated— I  had  not 
the  chance  to  graduate  anywhere  myself.     All  we  ask  is, 
Are  you  a  man?    We  judge  men  by  their  merits.    All  shall 
have  equal  protection  under  the  law.     We  are  a  truly  cos- 
mopolitan people,  and  live  by  the  freedom  of  democracy. 
The  Rice  Institute  is  one  of  the  results  of  this  freedom  of 
spirit.    This  spirit  of  independence,  this  spirit  of  hope,  this 
spirit  of  progress  prevails  everywhere  throughout  Texas. 
And,  my  friends,  I  want  to  say  that  so  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned, and  so  far  as  my  influence  might  go,  I  would  rather 
have  founded  the  Rice  Institute  and  provided  for  its  main- 
tenance to  educate  the  hearts  and  the  minds  of  the  people 
of  Texas  than  to  be  emperor  of  any  foreign  nation  of  the 
earth. 

Now,  Mr.  Mayor,  I  came  here  without  any  written 
speech.  I  have  been  so  busy  attending  to  the  necessary  af- 
fairs of  the  people  who  occupy  the  territory  extending  from 
Orange  to  El  Paso,  a  distance  of  nine  hundred  and  thirty 
miles,  and  from  Brownsville  at  the  mouth  of  the  Rio  Grande 
to  Amarillo,  a  distance  of  nearly  eleven  hundred  miles,  that 
I  have  not  had  time  to  prepare  a  speech  for  you;  but  a  man 
who  is  governor  of  a  territory  so  extensive  has  so  many 
features  of  life  presented  to  him  daily  that  he  is  always 
bold  enough  to  make  a  speech  on  any  occasion. 

Again  I  thank  you  one  and  all  for  coming  to  Houston  and 
for  the  distinction  you  are  lending  the  city  and  the  State  on 
this  auspicious  occasion,  and  again  I  welcome  you  from  the 

Do] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

bottom  of  my  heart,  and  I  speak  for  the  entire  citizenship 
of  Texas  in  extending  you  that  welcome. 

Mayor  Rice:  We  have  listened  to  Governor  Colquitt's 
cordial  address  of  welcome,  and  now  we  are  going  to  have 
the  great  pleasure  of  listening  to  a  response  from  one  of  our 
most  distinguished  foreign  visitors.  Professor  Sir  William 
Ramsay  of  London,  England,  who,  with  Lady  Ramsay,  has 
come  to  assist  in  the  launching  of  Houston's  university. 

Professor  Sir  William  Ramsay:  Your  Excellency,  your 
Honor,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen — I  have  to  make  one  remark 
before  beginning,  and  that  is  to  allude  to  the  way  in  which 
the  mayor  expressed  his  invitation  of  welcome.  He  called 
me  a  ''foreign  visitor."  I  decline  that  aspersion.  I  am  not 
a  foreign  visitor.  When  we  have  the  pleasure  of  receiving 
you  Americans  in  London,  we  don't  call  you  foreigners.  We 
don't  expect  to  be  called  foreigners  when  we  come  to  your 
country. 

Now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  what  your  mayor  has  said 
about  the  progress  of  education  is  true.  It  is  absolutely 
true.  The  governor  has  hinted  that  the  progress  of  edu- 
cation, the  progress  of  science,  has  been  contemporaneous 
with  the  separation  of  America  from  England.  That  re- 
minds me  that  I  once  heard  your  ambassador  to  Great 
Britain,  Mr.  Choate,  make  the  following  remark  at  a  dinner 
given  on  the  occasion  of  the  ninth  jubilee  of  the  foundation 
of  the  University  of  Glasgow,  which  took  place  in  1901. 
He  said:  "Your  institution  was  founded  in  the  year  145 1, 
about  the  same  date  as  that  on  which  America  was  discov- 
ered. Before  that  you  had  what  you  justly  called  the  'dark 
ages.'  " 

We  are  separated,  America  and  Britain,  but  we  on  our 
side  welcome  the  close  alliance  which  now  exists.     I  see  in 

1:313 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

front  of  me  the  word  ^'Peace."  I  am  reminded  of  one  of 
your  great  cities  in  America— Philadelphia— and  of  its 
motto,  ^^Philadelphia  maneto^^  (''Let  brotherly  love  con- 
tinue''). I  also  see  numerals  on  the  same  flag  on  which  is 
written  the  word  "Peace/'  running  from  one  to  ten,  which 
I  presume  is  intended  to  recall  the  ten  commandments.  I 
presume  it  is  intended  to  mean  that  the  people  here  are  not 
to  break  them.  Well,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  up  to  the  ninth 
commandment  I  am  willing  to  obey;  but  when  it  comes  to 
the  tenth,  I  am  not  quite  sure.  I  have  seen  the  Rice  Insti- 
tute this  morning,  I  have  read  its  papers,  and  I  know  what 
it  intends  to  do,  and  I  am  not  sure  that  you  have  done  right 
to  show  us  the  Rice  Institute  before  suggesting  to  us  that 
tenth  commandment. 

We  know  you  have  before  you  a  magnificent  career.  You 
have  begun  it  well  by  making  appointments  of  eminent  men 
to  be  your  professors.  You  have  begun  it  well  by  the  num- 
ber of  students  whom  you  have  enrolled.  I  am  told  that 
only  about  one  fourth  of  those  who  could  have  attended  and 
who  could  have  come  in  have  been  accepted.  You  are  going 
to  keep  your  standard  high. 

Well,  gentlemen,  there  is  one  thing  that  has  struck  me  as 
a  danger  threatening  American  universities.  It  is  the  large 
number  of  students  enrolled.  These  numbers  are  growing 
too  large.  Let  me  give  you  a  specific  instance.  The  pro- 
fessor of  chemistry  in  the  University  of  California  told  me 
lately  that  he  had  over  two  thousand  students  to  teach.  To 
teach  two  thousand  students  is  an  impossibility.  What  can 
you  do?  My  suggestion  is  this,  that  you  increase  the  number 
of  your  teachers.  Don't  appoint  assistants,  teachers,  lec- 
turers, but  create  entirely  separate  departments.  If  you 
require  two  professors  of  philosophy,  have  them  at  double 
expense.     It  pays.     You  cannot  turn  out  students  as  you 

1:323 


:^^.  -* 


Viiiuli  lil  rER15  ART1BU6Q 

MuNlFlCENrL\  OUiL^-L- 
^Mi  RiCr:'HOU5ToNH'lN  URBETE- 
'^riO'CONDITl-VITu5'VOLTERRA  FAO% 
D\Ti5'6CiE!sJlA.RM  ROMANAE  PRAE5E.S 


^t'<^ 


S    DP 


■c>. 


if C  TO  R    Mav;nificu5 iVacsiae6Ptx>ti ^so» 
vcs>  omne*  Rc«^ia<?  UTiivcr5itari.s>Sludionim 
RomanaeVobii  Viri  clanssimi  suis  verbis 
haec  a  mt'  ticnuntiari  \v:^uerunt  Quod  exi* 
mia  civii  VksXfi  libemiitate  Vcstraque  cum 
ac  dihgeiitia  novix  apud  V06  M  u^arum  Ae- 
v-aa  ci>t  omnibus  rcbui.quae  ad  oflirxtii  «tudia  ex- 
ro1cn4a  promovendaque  pertinent   opipare  m5tTacta,V'«^ 
bi^gratuiamur.  nobjs  «^audc)rnu6  Nam  ceruirnu:  ^* 
6Lratum  opera  ^enuA  hunianum  ihvci^tis  .  >  •  -•  1 ;.. ; i 
modj  vid  aJ  uUJit^em  \ntae  vel  ad  co^iii    ... 
;>tudio  as3jduo  feUcic^ue^  succesiu  locupkr-tan  ;<t  e« . 
r)iur.c)uicl<iuid  ubi^uc.  geiilium  rcDrt-him  sit.sdcun^  a^ 
onin<eo  hv-wnirie.s  Hm.    .d  n.v-  tna  .iitmciv    Qir.v:v: 

In^tu  lO  V<t%l\ .  ..13  ?iu  iv\cv.s  orXo  vol  a 

cUftin  atiju.'^^ian-  nunc 

.TtssjT- cioctrirvv 
riar»\  adtpiscaUur  Quod 
iv?niun  fauiiujn.&iiK 
ic»rtunaiunuji.*t,  ill 

VALE  TE 


* 


nm^' 


^,111 


I 


si 


H'^^^i 


■'"I'SFS 


am 


■it' 


m^ 


vD  IV  Id  Oct  anni     ;«i 


f  MCMXilpChrn 


W 


W 


S9 


T] ! ' 

front  of 

me  t 

he  V 

your   g-^' 

» 'I «- 

.(.It::^ 

motto, 

M 

T 

written  tile  h 

I  D  re  Slim 

picsuiae 

1 

to  break 

I  heir. 

fCE  INSTITUTE 

Peace/*     I  am  reminded  of  one  of 
merica— Philadelphia— and    of   its 
cto*'    ("Let  brotherly  love  con- 
,  .  ^..  ,.:^  1-he  '^-'me  flag  on  which  is 
Ciice,"  running  irom  one  to  ten,  which 
(I  to  recall  the  ten  commandments.     I 
u>  mean  that  the  people  here  are  not 
I,  \:\  jnd  eentlemen,  up  to  the  ninth 

commuiiUiiiCnt  1  im  wilhii^  lu  uulv  .,  uui  vucn  it  comes  to 
the  tenth,  I  am  not  quite  sure.  1  have  st-en  the  Rice  Insti- 
^"fp  ^hlc  -n<  hnve  l•Q^^l  its  papr  -  I  know  what 

Li  intends  C"  and  i  am  not  sure  that  you  have  done  right 
to  show  us  rh^'  Ri-.r  [nsfifi^^e  before  ^^uv^ii  g  to  us  that 
tcncn  comniuiidmcnr. 

We  know  you  have  before  you  a  mag?:  -t  career.  You 
have  begun  it  well  by  making  appoininuius  .^i  eminent  men 
to  be  your  professors.  You  have  begun  it  well  by  the  num- 
ber of  cMiJpnfc  T'hom  you  have  enrolled.  I  am  told  that 
only  about  one  lourth  of  those  who  could  have  attended  and 
who  cou^d  have  com"  in  have  been  accepted.  You  are  going 
to  keep  your  scanuai..  high. 


Well  - 


a  Oi'.ii^c 
numb 

too   I.; 


I 


nere  is  one  tiling  rh:i'  has  struck  me  as 

vUicUn  uiiiv  ci5i;.icci.      iL  ib  liiC  large 

^  enrolled.     These  mi  s  are  growling 

bmver  >t  Calitornia  told  me 

Jarelv  th-vt  he  had  ovt^r  rw«>  thoiisnn;!  stud^^nf*^  tn  teach.  To 
tcauii  Lwu  iiiuuj>iiau  iiucicnt;;  is  *in  irnpussibiiit) .  What  can 
you  do?  1  is  t        ihat  v'>u  increase  the  number 

''■    y^-*'**  'Ji   ai5i;^iauii>.  luadicrs,  lec- 

turers,  i)v  £   cnnreiy  separate  us.      If  you 

renu^re  two  nrof^'^'^nr^  of  pImIo*;.' nhv-  h-  -.  ^hem  at  double 
expense,      ic  pjys.      1  ou  cap.noi   lurn  out  students  as  you 

[32] 


iRAEFEcTo  ADMINISTRATORIBUSQ'-'E 
lN6riTuTi'UrTER15  ARTiBU5QUE 
|cOLEND15-MUNlFlCENnA  GUlLFb= 
?M1  RlCE^HOU6ToNE'lNURBE^TE= 
XATi6'CONDiri'VITu5' VOLTeRRA' FAC^lr 
rATi6'5CiESriARM'ROMANAE  PRAESE5 

S    DV 


^N 


s^^5BJ!i-j 


iR-->..<^ 


}i^^ 


4 


^^1 

_  o  ♦  ♦ 

pi 


ECTOR   Maoniticus PraesidesProfcsso= 
105  omiies  Rco^iae  UnivcriilaM^^tudionim 
RomanaeVobis  Vin  clai'issimi  suis  verbis 
hacc  a  me  denuntiah  x-oluerunt.  Quod  exi- 
miacivis  V^tri  liberaiitateVestraque  cura 
ac'diligciitia  nova  apudV^os  Musarum  se= 
de5  condita  est  omnibus  rcbus.quae  ad  optinta  6tudia  ex= 
colcnda  promovcndaquc  pertinent,  opipare  instructa.Vcn 
bi6  gratulamur.  nobis  gaudemus.Nam  cernimusVc- 
stratum  opera  genus  hunianuna  ihvcnlis  ciiiuscumque 
modi  vcl  ad  utilitatem  vitae  vel  ad  cognilionem  rcruni 
studio  asoiduo  helicique  successu  locupletari ;  et  arbitra= 
fnur.quiJc[uid  ubi».juc  gentium,  repertum  sit.  id  cum  ad 
omne5  honimcs  tun\  ad  nos  maxime  attmeiv    QiiaTC 
Institute V^stro  lam  lactis  auspiciis  orto  y/oto^ 
etiam  atque  etiam  nuncupamu*  aao;ura= 
murque  ibre  ut  m  pcrpetuumfloreat 

atque  .summam  doctrinae   glo= 
nam  adipiscatur  Q_uod 
bonum  laustuin.feiix 
fbrtuneitumque  sit- 

VALETE 


<Q.^-^  7^^;^-iv) 


i 


f) 


^^P- 

'-i\ 


lADlVldOct  anni 


.Ail 


r-->l 


i-r-J 


-s 


MCMXilpChrn     gj. 


.^^m 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

would  needles  or  wire  or  nails.  Learned  men  cannot  be 
made  like  them.  Each  student  must  come  into  personal  con- 
tact with  his  teachers. 

And  now,  gentlemen,  speaking  for  your  foreign  visitors 
and  guests,  I  have  the  honor  to  express  our  gratitude  to  you 
for  having  given  us  this  opportunity  of  coming  among  you. 
We  have  passed,  my  wife  and  I,  through  this  great  country 
of  Texas.  Of  course  I  suppose  that  while  alongside  of  a 
railroad  one  sees  the  homes  and  the  farms  of  the  settlers, 
when  one  goes  back  of  a  railroad  the  country  loses  signs  of 
being  inhabited,  yet  what  we  have  seen  of  the  country  has 
been  magnificent.  It  is  evidently  very  fertile,  and  it  is  be- 
coming populated,  and  you  have  only  to  wait  and  let  Immi- 
gration take  place  to  have  Texas  become  one  of  the  greatest 
imperial  States  of  this  country,  and  one  of  the  finest  in  the 
world. 

We  have  come  to  you,  we  have  come  to  see  your  country, 
we  have  come  to  make  friends  with  you,  and  I  now  desire 
that  you  will  give  us  every  opportunity  to  do  so. 

I  thank  you  very  heartily  for  your  cordial  reception. 

I  will  now  use  a  custom  which  is  not  included  in  American 
gatherings  of  this  kind,  but  is  common  at  similar  gatherings 
on  the  continent  of  Europe;  it  is  to  raise  my  glass  and  drink 
to  ''The  Prosperity  of  the  Rice  Institute." 

Mayor  Rice:  Professor  William  Henry  Carpenter,  Pro- 
vost of  Columbia  University,  is  one  of  our  guests  from  the 
Metropolis  of  the  Union.  He  has  kindly  consented  to  re- 
spond for  the  Eastern  institutions.  With  great  pleasure  I 
present  him  to  you. 


Provost  William  Henry  Carpenter  :  Ladies  and  Gen- 
tlemen— The  life  of  every  human  being  in  retrospect,   I 

D33 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

imagine,  has  its  quota  of  regrets  for  hopes  unfulfilled  and 
for  opportunities  wasted.  Since  I  have  been  sitting  at  this 
table,  I  have  added  still  another  to  my  own  total  of  regrets, 
and  that  is  a  regret  that  I  am  not  a  citizen  of  this  great  com- 
monwealth of  Texas.  The  governor's  speech  has  filled  me 
with  desire.  I  belong  to  a  community  which,  to  be  sure,  has 
played  its  historical  part  in  the  evolution  of  a  nation;  but 
nevertheless,  when  I  think  over  its  past  in  connection  with 
the  governor's  glowing  picture  of  the  future,  it  seems  to  me 
what  we  have  done  is  little  in  amount  and  significance  in  its 
ultimate  effect  as  an  influential  part  of  the  whole. 

The  president  of  the  Rice  Institute  has  asked  me  to  say  a 
word  on  behalf  of  the  Eastern  institutions  of  learning.  In 
thinking  over  what  I  was  to  say  before  I  came  here,  it 
seemed  diflScult  to  make  a  choice  where  so  much  might  be 
said  at  the  launching  of  a  new  educational  enterprise  under 
the  peculiarly  favorable  conditions  that  attend  the  present. 
Some  thoughts,  however,  have  suggested  themselves,  that 
perhaps  may  be  presented  as  bearing  upon  the  occasion  that 
has  called  us  together. 

The  one  thing  that  I  have  thought  of  is  the  object-lesson 
that  is  made  by  such  a  gathering  of  men  as  are  present  here 
to-day.  For  it  seems  to  me  that  no  gathering  of  men,  for 
whatever  purpose  it  is  arranged,  or  in  whatever  spirit  it  is 
intended,  is  so  significant  as  is  an  assemblage  of  this  kind, 
that  has  brought  learned  men  across  the  seas  and  from  so 
many  parts  of  this  great  republic. 

No  gathering  of  men  speaks  so  much  for  the  solidarity 
of  human  Interests  as  does  an  educational  gathering  such  as 
this.  There  are  other  gatherings  of  men  that  have  for  their 
object  the  extending  of  the  propaganda  of  some  particular 
subject.  There  are  political  conventions  that  are  got  to- 
gether in  a  state  or  in  a  nation  for  a  single  definite  purpose. 

[34] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

But  here  is  a  gathering  from  the  ends  of  the  earth  for  a 
purpose  that  is  broader  In  Its  Intention  and  its  results  than 
any  other— the  common  purpose  of  education. 

And  another  thing  comes  to  my  mind  in  looking  over  the 
names  of  the  delegates  to  your  celebration.  I  have  thought 
not  only  of  the  solidarity  of  interest,  but  of  the  permanency 
of  interest  that  is  Indicated  by  the  gathering  here  to-day. 

No  human  Institution  is  so  permanent  as  a  university. 
Dynasties  may  come  and  go,  political  parties  may  rise  and 
fall,  the  influences  of  men  may  change,  but  the  universities 
and  what  they  stand  for  go  on  forever.  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge have  outlasted  changes  of  party  and  of  policy.  The 
University  of  Paris  has  withstood  a  revolution  that  trans- 
formed the  face  of  the  nation,  but  It  exists  to-day  stronger 
than  ever  before.  The  University  of  Bologna,  to  go  further 
afield,  stands  almost  alone  as  a  monument  of  previous  great- 
ness In  a  city  whose  Importance  is  wholly  a  thing  of  the  past 
and  whose  very  existence  has  almost  been  forgotten.  And 
in  our  country  universities  have  been  founded  that  have  out- 
lasted the  long  list  of  presidents  of  the  republic.  Harvard 
and  Yale  and  Princeton  and  Columbia,  In  fact,  have  wit- 
nessed the  change  from  the  colonial  government  of  England 
to  the  democracy  of  the  present  day.  Whigs  and  Tories 
have  come  and  gone,  political  waves  have  risen  to  the  sur- 
face and  have  been  submerged,  generations  of  men  have 
lived  and  died,  but  these  universities  have  gone  on  their  way 
to  the  present  time,  and,  well  founded,  they  will  go  on  for- 
ever. 

No  human  activity  is  so  permanent  as  the  influence  of  the 
university,  and  the  opportunities  of  the  university  are  greater 
to-day  than  they  have  ever  been  before  In  the  civilized 
world.  This  is  possibly  true  as  well  of  the  great  Industries 
of  this  great  country,  and  the  two— Industry  and  education  — 

an 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

go  more  and  more  hand  in  hand  together.  The  present  time 
is  pre-eminently  a  time  of  awakening  in  industry  and  educa- 
tion alike,  and  industry,  in  its  many-sided  interests,  is  look- 
ing more  and  more  to  education,  even  in  an  age  that  is  called 
material,  for  enlightenment  and  support.  Out  of  the  labora- 
tories of  the  universities  are  coming  to  an  increasing  extent 
the  influences  that  make  for  economic  and  industrial  im- 
provement and  contribute  to  the  betterment  of  human  living 
and  to  the  good  of  mankind. 

In  America  we  have  had  in  education  an  era  of  theology 
at  the  beginning,  which  was  succeeded  by  an  era  of  law,  and 
which,  in  its  turn,  has  been  succeeded  by  the  era  of  science 
in  which  we  at  the  present  time  live.  It  seems  to  me  that 
the  time  is  ripe  for  the  founding  of  a  university  such  as  the 
Rice  Institute  will  doubtless  develop  into  in  the  near  future. 
There  is  in  my  mind,  and  in  the  minds  of  many  who  have 
carefully  watched  the  signs  of  the  times,  the  possibility  of 
the  development  of  a  new  interest  in  America  in  the  arts  and 
in  letters  and  in  all  the  liberal  knowledge  that  is  included 
under  these  names.  By  taking  advantage  of  the  opportunity 
which  is  plainly  open  to  you  in  working  out  your  educational 
plan,  and  by  firmly  basing  a  scientific  superstructure  only 
upon  a  broad  cultural  foundation,  you  will  not  only  exercise 
an  important  influence  in  that  movement  of  enlightenment 
that  is  sweeping  through  this  part  of  the  world,  as  the  gov- 
ernor has  so  proudly  and  eloquently  explained  to  us,  but  you 
will  contribute  your  part  to  a  movement  that  presently,  un- 
less all  signs  fail,  will  extend  over  the  United  States. 

There  is  an  old  motto,  a  motto  that  has  come  down  out 
of  the  distant  past:  ^'Ex  oriente  lux^*  ("Light  comes  out  of 
the  East'^).  In  the  establishment  of  the  Rice  Institute  you 
have  done  something  that  in  a  future  that  may  not  be  distant 
will  lead  us  to  say,  ^'Ex  occidente  lux/^  as  well,  for  light  will 

[36] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

surely  come  to  us  out  of  the  West  as  a  consequence  of  your 

action. 

Well,  gentlemen,  I  do  not  know  that  I  have  much  more 
to  say.  I  should,  however,  after  all,  like  to  say  just  one 
more  word  about  the  opportunities  of  a  great  university, 
such  as  this  in  the  future  is  to  be,  as  a  factor  in  the  life  of 

the  nation. 

Somebody  has  said,  "The  weaknesses  of  a  democracy  are 
the  opportunities  of  education."  I  think  there  is  a  great 
deal  in  that  to  ponder  over,  because  a  democracy— this 
democracy— does  have  its  weakness  as  well  as  its  strength. 
A  great  weakness,  as  I  see  it,  in  this  democracy  is  the  indif- 
ference that  largely  prevails  throughout  the  country  to  the 
broader  education  of  the  body  of  the  people.  If  we  go  on 
along  those  lines  in  the  future  as  we  frequently  follow  them 
to-day,  we  shall  develop  here  in  America  not  at  all  what 
the  forefathers  of  the  republic  had  in  mind  when  they  signed 
the  Declaration  of  Independence,  and  we  shall  have  a  gov- 
ernment of  the  many  by  the  few,  instead  of  a  government 
by  all,  as  is  inherent  in  the  very  life  of  a  democracy.  It  is 
the  business  of  the  educator  to  recognize  this  weakness,  to 
come  down  from  his  heights  into  the  valleys,  and  to  work 
in  the  light  that  has  been  given  him  for  the  extension  of  edu- 
cational opportunity  that  will  make  in  the  end  for  the  salva- 
tion of  his  country. 

Now,  gentlemen,  in  closing,  I  wish  to  extend  to  the  Rice 
Institute,  so  auspiciously  founded  to-day,  the  congratulations 
of  the  older  Eastern  universities  upon  your  entrance  into  the 
work  of  education— a  work,  maybe,  that  has  its  discourage- 
ments, but  which  has  in  an  extraordinary  measure  its  pro- 
found satisfactions.  My  university— Columbia  University 
in  the  City  of  New  York— was  founded  back  in  1754,  so 
that  I  am  speaking  in  a  way,  at  least  by  proxy,  out  of  the 

[37] 


r 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

depths  of  time  and  experience.  I  wish,  however,  not  merely 
to  bring  to  you  the  felicitations  of  our  universities  in  the  East 
on  your  birthday,  but  to  extend  to  you  by  a  heartfelt  grasp 
of  the  hand  an  invitation  to  join  our  ranks,  in  what  seems 
to  me  in  many  ways  to  be  more  than  almost  any  other  human 
institution  whatever,  a  community  of  the  immortals. 
I  thank  you,  gentlemen. 

Mayor  Rice  :  It  is  now  my  pleasure  to  introduce  to  this 
audience  Professor  Vlto  Volterra  of  the  University  of 
Rome,  life  Senator  of  the  Italian  Kingdom,  whom  we  wel- 
come most  cordially  from  the  south  of  Europe  to  this  south- 
ern country  of  the  American  nation. 

Professor  Senator  Volterra:  Mr.  Governor,  Mr, 
Mayor,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen  — I  should  like  first  of  all  to 
declare  my  great  pleasure  in  being  present  at  this  festival, 
and  my  appreciation  of  the  cordial  and  bountiful  hospitality 
that  I  have  found  here  in  Houston.  Allow  me  to  express  the 
feeling  of  admiration  that  I  experience  in  visiting  this  great 
new  country,  an  admiration  that  has  changed  only  to  in- 
crease since  my  last  coming  to  America.  Your  high  civiliza- 
tion and  enterprising  spirit  have  been  able  to  conquer  an 
entire  continent,  to  create  as  if  by  enchantment  marvelous 
cities  like  this  which  we  are  visiting  now.  These  grow  up 
in  a  few  years.  They  provide  themselves  not  only  with  all 
the  modern  comforts  which  make  existence  easy  and  agree- 
able, but  also  reach  a  high  place  in  life  that  is  intellectual 
and  moral.  And  we  see  here  to-day  one  of  the  most  notable 
examples  of  this  spirit,  as  we  inaugurate  this  magnificent 
university,  the  gift  of  William  Marsh  Rice.  He  has  ren- 
dered to  the  culture  of  his  country  a  magnificent,  well-con- 
ceived service. 

[383 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

No  institution  could  more  impress  the  mind,  could  make 
more  manifest  the  difference  between  the  old  continent 
which  we  have  left,  and  this  country,  full  of  youth  and  spirit, 
which  we  have  found.  Our  universities  have  ancient  and 
most  deep-reaching  traditions.  Every  idea  that  has  been 
developed  in  moral  and  intellectual  fields,  from  the  time  of 
the  distant  Middle  Ages  until  to-day,  has  left  its  impress 
upon  them,  and  their  life  exhibits  always  the  results  of  this 
long  development  of  customs  and  thought.  But  you  have 
created  institutions  from  the  beginning  and  at  once,  univer- 
sities in  which  you  can  accommodate  everything  to  the  de- 
mands of  the  present,  without  the  embarrassment  of  a  single 
relic  from  the  past. 

Yet  the  men  of  the  old  universities  of  Europe,  and  those 
who  constitute  the  new  ones  in  America,  have  the  same  high 
aspirations  and  scientific  ideals  in  common.  Rendering  mu- 
tual aid,  they  can  and  ought  to  march  together.  Both  should 
bring  their  contributions  to  the  collective  labor  that  tends  to 
scientific  progress  and  evolution. 

It  is  for  this  reason  that  I  see  with  such  great  joy,  united 
here  before  me,  the  representatives  of  these  two  continents. 

Mayor  Rice:  I  now  have  the  honor  of  introducing  to 
you  Professor  Sir  Henry  Jones  of  the  University  of  Glas- 
gow. We  welcome  this  distinguished  philosopher  warmly 
from  a  city  whose  example  we  have  sought  to  emulate  in  the 
Houston  ship-channel. 

Professor  Sir  Henry  Jones  :  Your  Excellency  the  Gov- 
ernor of  Texas,  your  Honor  the  Mayor  of  Houston,  Ladies 
and  Gentlemen— V^t  have  been  told  many  things  this  after- 
noon, and  told  them  well.  You  will  pardon  me,  I  am  sure, 
if  my  words  are  few;  I  am  not  convinced  that  though  they 

[39] 


I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

were  many  they  would  add  to  the  value  of  those  to  which 
you  have  already  listened  with  such  courtesy  and  so  gladly. 
But  I  have  two  duties  to  perform,  and  I  can  neglect 
neither     The  first  is  to  express  my  satisfaction  m  bemg  pres- 
ent amongst  so  many  lovers  of  learning  not  only  from  this 
city  but  from  the  States  of  America  and  of  western  and 
southern  Europe.    I  count  it  a  great  privilege.    On  the  last 
occasion  of  such  a  gathering  as  this  at  which  I  was  present, 
the  jubilee  of  Lord  Kelvin  as  professor  in  the  University 
of  Glasgow  was  being  celebrated.     Professor  Ker  of  Lon- 
don University  compared  it  to  heaven.    "You  meet  so  many 
old  friends,"  he  said,  "and  you  are  so  surprised  to  see  them. 

My  second  duty  and  my  still  greater  privilege  is  to  jom 
with  you  all  in  good  wishes  for  the  prosperity  of  the  Rice 
Institute.     You  are  entering  to-day,  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
upon  an  enterprise  whose  significance  for  the  future  no  man 
can  measure.     There  is  no  doubt  as  to  the  means  whereby 
man  masters  his  world  and  converts  its  blind  forces  into 
beneficent  powers.     They  are  the  same  means,  in  the  last 
resort,  as  those  which  help  him  in  the  still  more  difficult 
enterprise  of  mastering  himself.     They  have  all  one,  and 
only  one,  purpose.    It  is  that  of  so  operating  upon  the  mind 
of  man  as  first  to  awaken  and  then  to  foster  that  passion  for 
truth  which  Is  the  condition  of  all  sincerity  in  conduct  as 
well  as  of  all  advancement  in  knowledge,  and  which  brings 
a  clear  conscience  as  well  as  a  clear  mind.    Your  Institute, 
in  the  last  resort,  is  dedicated  to  the  making  of  character- 
and  character,  good  or  bad,  builds  up  or  pulls  down  civili- 
zation.   It  is  the  greatest  thing  in  the  world.    With  all  my 
heart  I  desire  your  prosperity  In  your  dealing  with  it,  for  in 
it  Is  the  true  measure  of  the  attainment  of  the  end  which 
you  have  set  before  you  in  the  Rice  Institute -"the  advance- 
ment of  literature,  science,  and  art." 


--»»*, 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 
Mayor  Rice:  We  have  among  our  guests  Dr.  George 
Gary  Comstock  of  the  University  of  Wisconsin.  It  is  now 
my  pleasure  to  present  him  to  you,  with  a  request  that  he 
speak  not  only  for  his  own  university,  but  for  the  other  insti- 
tutions of  the  West. 

Dean  George  Gary  Gomstock:  Your  Excellency  the 
Governor,  your  Honor  the  Mayor,  my  Colleagues,  Ladies 
and  Gentlemen-On  behalf  of  the  university  I  represent- 
Wisconsin-and  on  behalf  of  her  sister  universities  of  the 
Middle  West,  in  so  far  as  I  may  speak  for  them,  it  is  with 
great  pleasure  that  I  return  to  you  our  thanks  for  the  cour- 
tesies that  we  have  received  on  this  occasion,  and  our  appre- 
ciation of  the  very  warm  hospitality  that  the  city  of  Houston 
and  the  State  of  Texas  have  extended  to  us. 

But  I  stand  here,  Mr.  Mayor,  not  simply  as  the  recipient 
of  your  kind  hospitality,  but  as  your  fellow-countryman  in 
welcoming  the  addition  of  a  new  star  to  the  educational 
firmament  of  this  land.    I  desire  to  join  with  you  especially 
in  extending  my  share  of  recognition  and  praise  to  that  new 
name  that  has  been  added  to  the  list  of  distinguished  bene- 
factors of  American  learning  and  science,  to  that  list  which, 
beginning  with  Harvard  and  Yale  and  continuing  in  un- 
broken line  through  the  generations  of  our  forefathers,  to- 
day has  added  to  its  roll  the  name  of  William  Marsh  Rice. 
We  stand  at  the  beginnings  of  the  Rice  Institute,  a  notable 
foundation  placed  in  the  midst  of  an  empire  ready  for  its 
service.    It  is  the  function  of  its  honorable  president  and  its 
Board  of  Trustees  to  care  for  the  future  of  that  institution, 
to  determine  the  lines  along  which  its  development  shall 
take  place;  and  far  be  it  from  me  upon  this  occasion  to  ex- 
press to  them  aught  other  than  sympathy  for  their  under- 
taking.   Words  of  advice  are  not  needed,  and  would  indeed 

[41] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

be  out  of  place  at  this  time.  But  I  may  speak  to  some  of 
you  gentlemen  here,  who  are  men  of  affairs,  who  enjoy  the 
fruits  that  come  out  of  the  educational  policy  of  our  land, 
and  who  desire  to  see  that  policy  grow  and  bear  fruit  fairer 
and  better  than  any  yet  realized. 

The  greatest  Englishman  of  our  day,  politician,  adminis- 
trator, financier-I  mean  the  late  Cecil  Rhodes-cherished 
such  desires  from  boyhood  to  the  close  of  his  career,  and 
dying  at  the  height  of  his  power  and  influence,  left  a  vast 
fortune  to  be  devoted  mainly  to  such  ends.     Let  me  put  be- 
fore you  briefly  his  aspiration  and  the  purpose  that  he  sought 
to  accomplish  by  endowing  at  Oxford  University  some  two 
hundred  scholarships  to  be  filled  by  the  most  promising 
youth  that  could  be  collected  from  English-speaking  lands; 
young  men  of  power  and  purpose,  of  moral  aspiration  as' 
well  as  scholarly  attainment,  who  were  to  be  assembled  at 
that  ancient  seat  of  British  culture,  "for  breadth  of  view, 
for  mstruction  in  life  and  manners,"  and-mark  the  vision 
of  the  empire-builder  !-"to   secure  an  attachment  to  the 
country  from  which  they  have  sprung."    Does  his  vision  ap- 
peal to  you?  Is  it  worth  while  to  bring  together  during  their 
impressionable  years  the  youth  that  have  shown  promise 
of  future  leadership  and  to  give  to  them  a  common  training 
m  the  best  traditions  of  the  race?    To  wear  down  the  cor- 
ners of  prejudice,  to  round  out  the  defects  of  provincialism, 
to  fill  up  the  gaps  of  ancestral  experience?    Rhodes  thought 
It  was.     I  share  his  belief,  and  I  appeal  to  you,  gentlemen, 
shall  this  remain  only  a  British  ideal?     May  we  not  look 
forward  to  its  Americanization?    May  there  not  be  placed 
upon  the  head  of  the  Rice  Institute  a  great  crown  of  glory  in 
that  It  shall  be  a  center  toward  which  the  youth  of  the  world 
shall  come  to  be  trained  in  the  ideals  of  American  life  and 

1:423 


#ii'"^.,jl^,"_^*#  ill 


R 


THE   UNIVRRSFTY  OF  ABKRDEKN  having  been  invited  by 
the    President   and   Trustees   of  the    Rice    Institute   of   [liberal 
and  Technical   Learning  in   Houston,  Texas,  to  send  a  dele.oate 
to    the    formal    opening    of    the    New     University    and    to    the 
exercises  attending  the    Inauguration  of  the    ^:ducational    Pro- 
gramme of  the   Institution  on   the  tenth,  eleventh,  and   twelfth 
of  October;  the  University  Court,  in  response  to  the  invitation, 
while  endeavouring  to  arrange  that  the  University  of  Aberdeen 
shall    be    represented    on    so    auspicious    an    occasion    by    r,ne 
of    its    graduates,    desires    to   congratulate   the    President   and 
Trustees   of  the    Rice    Institute    upon    the    magniHcent    endow- 
ments  and  buildings  in  their  charge,  and  prays  that  the  studies 
to  which  these  have  been  devoted,  and  which   open  this  year, 
may    abundantly    flourish    to    the    advancement    of    Literature, 
Science,  and   Art   in   the   State  of  Texas   and   throughout   the' 
American    Continent. 


? 


t^'l-Qt 


dcLa^s,^     ^^•t^     V  /.  ^  . 


Principal   and    Vice-chancellor. 


September    jsth,    191 2. 


M- 


moth 

11  Rhc 

■ ,  nt 

iiiiiission 

lie 

le 

macrcrs,  I 


,-i  r^   ;-*  pi  1* . 


BOOK  OF  T;        oi^? 

light,  of  religion  and  liberty,  tor  the  use  ana  pruni 
.■•  lule  earth? 

But,  gentlerneit  '  '.'dm  Iroui  nua  concept 
pressed  with  equal  clearness  In  the  words  ^-r  . 
an.l  which  seems  also  ^.ntnxvn^fhv  r>Jh-!^  -n 
way.  Having  confided  to  Uxiora  tne  spiendi 
ab(u  f>  suggested,  he  pavs  his  respects  to  its  pc 
words:  *'As  aie  coucgc  authorities  hv. 
world,  and  are  so  like  children  as  to  commt 
wouiu  aa\  isc  them  to  consult  ...;  tP'^t^^ 
of  our  American  universities,  lei  me  disclaim  aiiv  sucii  con- 
cent ns  hp  Irind  of  m.en  that  shor'ld  compose  the  ♦acuity 
of  an  jiistiiunon  of  learning.     V  de 

West  believe  that  a  great  university  shnuld  be  an  institution 
lu  wiiuu  the  comrnuni 
ship,  for  expert  advice  in  r 

that  He  ^^evond  the  rinrrr  d 

be  a  place  in  v/hich  I. 

suhsfantial  additions  "w 

art;  nut    n  no  less  iHcu^uH:  mu.. 

knowledge  is  utilized  for  the  bene  the  rn.in 

A  major  function  of  th-v     . 

concrete  and  profitable  to  mankimi,  and  riiat  ^nd  ^diuiy 

secured  ^v  the  dreamy  rechi^p  n(  Mr.  Rhodes.     That 

Indeed  lias  its  uses,  and  wiih  its  Gisappearimic  t>onietns!iu 

would  be  lost  from  the  sweetness  of  life,  but  let  us  not  trust 

to  It  aiOiie  iot  uur  academic.  :^^:^^ 

Here  are  two  ideas  that  T  would  bring  before  you:    " 
the  institution  in  wh-^^^  K^n^e  we  meet  ^^.;^a•  hi^j  Kpfnrp  -r 
an  extraordinary  oppurt unity  to  ser\ 
its  ncrvp.rrntprx   and  that  it  wHI  •  ^nnlus  to  voui 

moned  iiitiier  nom  an  area  rar  vviuc:-  uiau  the  pru. 

43] 


nv 


»i 


X 


iNivr 


and 


th 


*»  'ir.vc;i:THV 


mvLnt 


PrcsKlent   and 
'     Jmniitute    upon    tJ;e    magriHct  ,. 

Jjii^s  Ml  their  charge   -^mi  pmv-  ,du's 

Je\ot(.- 


d>y^A^£L    >^('  d 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

light,  of  religion  and  liberty,  for  the  use  and  profit  of  the 
whole  earth? 

But,  gentlemen,  I  turn  from  this  concept  to  another  ex- 
pressed with  equal  clearness  in  the  words  of  Cecil  Rhodes, 
and  which  seems  also  noteworthy,  albeit  in  a  very  different 
way.  Having  confided  to  Oxford  the  splendid  commission 
above  suggested,  he  pays  his  respects  to  its  personnel  in  the 
words:  "As  the  college  authorities  live  secluded  from  the 
world,  and  are  so  like  children  as  to  commercial  matters,  I 
would  advise  them  to  consult  my  trustees,"  etc.  On  behalf 
of  our  American  universities,  let  me  disclaim  any  such  con- 
cept as  to  the  kind  of  men  that  should  compose  the  faculty 
of  an  institution  of  learning.  We  of  the  North  and  Middle 
West  believe  that  a  great  university  should  be  an  institution 
to  which  the  community  may  turn  for  guidance,  for  leader- 
ship, for  expert  advice  in  matters  of  science  and  scholarship 
that  lie  beyond  the  range  of  every-day  experience.  It  should 
be  a  place  in  which  knowledge  grows;  in  which,  year  by  year, 
substantial  additions  are  made  to  science,  to  letters,  and  to 
art;  but  in  no  less  measure  should  it  be  a  place  in  which  that 
knowledge  is  utilized  for  the  benefit  of  the  man  on  the  street. 
A  major  function  of  the  university  is  to  make  abstract  science 
concrete  and  profitable  to  mankind,  and  that  end  cannot  be 
secured  by  the  dreamy  recluse  of  Mr.  Rhodes.  That  type 
indeed  has  its  uses,  and  with  its  disappearance  something 
would  be  lost  from  the  sweetness  of  life,  but  let  us  not  trust 
to  it  alone  for  our  academic  staff. 

Here  are  two  ideas  that  I  would  bring  before  you:  that 
the  institution  in  w^hose  home  we  meet  to-day  has  before  it 
an  extraordinary  opportunity  to  serve  humanity  as  one  of 
its  nerve-centers,  and  that  it  will  be  a  stimulus  to  youth  sum- 
moned hither  from  an  area  far  wider  than  the  prairies  of 

[43^ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Texas  and  placed  under  the  influence  of  men  awake  to  the 
needs  and  tendencies  of  the  times  and  capable  of  giving  will 
and  heart  to  service  that  shall  be  as  thorough  and  competent 
as  it  is  devoted. 

And  now  let  me  bid  you  join  in  pledging  to  the  Rice  Insti- 
tute and  its  successful  fulfilment  of  its  mission  that  good  old 
academic  toast: 

^'Fivat,  crescat,  floreat  in  eternumr^ 

Mayor  Rice:  Among  the  university  presidents  of  the 
East  who  have  come  to  visit  us  at  this  time  is  the  distin- 
guished president  of  Lehigh  University,  Dr.  Henry  Sturgis 
Drinker.  I  have  great  pleasure  in  asking  him  to  address 
you. 

President  Henry  Sturgis  Drinker:  Governor  Col- 
quitt, Mayor  Rice,  President  Lovett— Among  the  gracious 
words  of  welcome  which  have  greeted  us  who  have  come 
from  distant  points  to  rejoice  with  you  to-day  were  words 
of  kindly  thanks  and  appreciation  for  our  presence  here. 
Sirs,  it  is  for  us  from  full  hearts  to  thank  you  for  the  oppor- 
tunity to  share  in  the  great  work  to-day  inaugurated,  and  I 
assure  you  we  appreciate  the  privilege. 

We  come  from  the  North,  the  South,  the  East,  and  the 
West  to  draw  from  the  Lone  Star  State  the  new  inspiration 
of  liberty  that  you  gave  us  of  the  older  States  in  your  strug- 
gle for  independence,  and  now  you  are  setting  us  a  further 
example  in  your  successful  educational  progress. 

Columbia  University  has  just  spoken  to  us  from  among 
the  older  institutions  of  our  land.  There  was  a  time  when 
we  used  to  rate  Lehigh  University  as  of  the  younger  brethren 
in  the  educational  family.  But  we  have  moved  up  into  the 
middle-aged  class.    The  donation  of  Asa  Packer,  amounting 

1:443 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

in  the  aggregate  to  about  three  million  dollars,  and  begin- 
ning with  five  hundred  thousand  dollars  in  1865,  to  found 
my  Alma  Mater— Lehigh— was  at  that  time  said  to  be  the 
largest  sum  ever  given  to  education.  But  now  you  spring 
full-panoplied  into  the  arena  with  your  magnificent  endow- 
ment, and  withal,  with  the  past  half-century  of  experience  of 
our  country  in  the  working  out  of  our  American  system  of 
higher  education,  of  which  you  may,  and  will,  avail. 

Surely  your  future  is  bright,  and  surely  the  founder  of  this 
great  institution— great  already,  greater  in  its  potentialities 
for  the  future— merits  the  application  of  Sophocles'  words 
where  he  says  in  his  ''GEdipus"  : 

^'Methinks  no  work  so  grand 
Hath  man  yet  compassed,  as,  with  all  he  can 
Of  chance  or  power,  to  help  his  fellow-manJ* 

Mayor  Rice  :  Professor  Emile  Borel,  a  celebrated  mathe- 
matician and  educator  of  France,  has  come  to  the  inaugura- 
tion of  the  Rice  Institute  as  the  official  delegate  from  the 
University  of  Paris,  the  mother  of  all  modern  universities, 
to  participate  in  our  academic  festival.  You  will,  I  am  sure, 
share  the  pleasure  and  honor  I  feel  in  introducing  him  to  you. 

Professor  Emile  Borel:  Mr,  Governor,  Mr,  Mayor, 
Ladies  and  Gentlemen— Tht  presence  on  this  occasion  of  so 
many  eminent  representatives  of  American  and  European 
universities  shows  clearly  with  what  interest  the  learned 
world  regards  the  inauguration  of  your  new  university.  I 
am  happy  to  convey  to  you  the  greetings  and  congratulations 
of  the  University  of  Paris,  which  is  one  of  the  oldest  of  uni- 
versities. I  am  happy  to  thank  you,  both  in  its  name  and 
in  my  own,  for  your  cordial  hospitality.  The  municipality 
of  Houston  does  us  the  honor  of  receiving  us  to-day  as  its 


\ 


n 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

guests.  Permit  me  to  raise  my  glass  to  the  rapid  extension 
of  this  great  new  city,  so  active  and  so  rich,  which,  along 
with  its  commercial  development,  has  desired  to  have  a 
corresponding  scientific  and  intellectual  development,  in  such 
a  way  as  to  become  doubly  a  center— namely,  a  business 
center  and  a  center  of  thought.  I  drink  most  heartily  to  the 
prosperity  of  the  city  of  Houston  and  to  the  prosperity  of 
the  Rice  Institute. 

Mayor  Rice  :  It  is  now  my  pleasure  to  call  upon  the  presi- 
dent of  one  of  our  own  Southern  universities,  who  will  re- 
spond on  this  occasion  for  the  universities  of  the  South- 
Chancellor  Kirkland  of  Vanderbilt  University. 

Chancellor  James  Hampton  Kirkland:  Your  Excel- 
lency the  Governor,  your  Honor  the  Mayor,  Ladies  and 
Gentlemen  — It  is  a  pleasure  to  be  here  on  a  day  that,  I  think, 
will  live  and  go  down  in  the  history  of  this  country  and  the 
State  of  Texas.  I  have  had  the  honor  as  well  as  the  plea- 
sure of  attending  and  participating  in  many  educational  con- 
ferences and  many  gatherings  of  men  of  science  and  letters, 
but  I  never  attended  one  launched  upon  such  a  broad  scale 
—  such  a  truly  cosmopolitan  scale— as  this  gathering  inci- 
dent to  the  dedication  of  the  Rice  Institute.  It  means  that 
the  great  colleges  of  the  world  recognize  the  Rice  Institute 
as  one  of  their  number. 

When  all  who  have  participated  in  these  exercises  have 
passed  away,  and  all  who  are  now  appearing  and  bearing 
the  glory  of  building  this  new  institution  have  passed,  their 
work  and  this  beginning  of  this  Institute  will  be  remembered 
in  history  as  the  greatest  day  in  the  history  of  Houston  and 
Texas. 

It  is  a  pleasant  thing.  Governor  Colquitt,  to  come  to 
Texas.     Tennesseeans  know  that,  and  they  come  here  in 

[46: 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

abundance.  You  are  gracious,  Mr.  Mayor,  to  call  for  com- 
ment from  a  representative  of  my  State.  Among  the  names 
most  revered  in  the  State  of  which  I  am  a  citizen  is  the  name 
of  Sam  Houston.  Do  you  know,  sir,  that  a  very  curious 
thing  is  this,  that  every  historian  of  Tennessee  who  has  writ- 
ten about  Sam  Houston  and  his  life  has  raised  the  question, 
but  never  found  a  solution  of  the  question,  why  Sam  Hous- 
ton ever  left  Tennessee  and  came  to  Texas.  But  no  man 
who  has  ever  lived  in  Texas  has  ever  raised  the  question. 

It  is  of  very  great  significance  that  the  governor  of  the 
State  is  here  from  his  duties  to  take  part  in  the  exercises  of 
to-day,  to  participate  in  the  inauguration  of  a  great  private 
institution,  as  he  has  just  said.  I  do  not  agree  with  the  gov- 
ernor. This  great  institution  that  you  are  launching  here  is 
not  a  private  institution.  There  are  no  private  educational 
institutions,  gentlemen.  All  institutions  for  the  education  of 
a  people  are  public  institutions,  devoted  to  public  acts  and 
public  enterprise,  and  always  part  of  the  great  public  inter- 
est. As  we  come  to  this  festal  day,  a  few  things  of  great 
significance  occur  to  those  of  us  who  are  working  in  other 
institutions,  especially  so  if  those  institutions  happen  to  be  in 
the  South. 

In  the  first  place,  the  Rice  Institute  begins  its  history  with- 
out the  dreaded  poverty  that  has  marked  the  growth  of  every 
Southern  institution,  and  of  almost  every  institution  in  this 
country,  until  now.  We  of  the  South  know  what  it  is  to  pass 
through  individual  and  institutional  poverty,  and  of  the  two, 
I  may  say  that  institutional  poverty  is  worse,  much  worse, 
than  individual  poverty,  more  harassing  and  harder  to  get 

rid  of. 

Another  striking  factor  in  the  greatness  of  this  institution 
I  speak  of  with  real  gratification.  The  Rice  Institute  will 
not  be  compelled  to  follow  the  example  of  so  many  insti- 

n473 


•  -    •■  •  •  ■    ■  r  ■»•«•  •  •*  »"-.*  ' 


^  ityn^Upji  ^  -  ■liiiimnfiif  I  ly 


THE  RICE  IiNSTITUTE 

tutions,  and  engage  in  the  mad  race  for  numbers.  It  can 
afford,  under  its  endowment,  to  make  it  a  badge  of  honor 
to  have  been  a  student  of  the  Rice  Institute,  and  I  am  sure 
that  just  such  high  standards  will  be  maintained. 

Still  another  factor  I  would  mention— though  I  mention 
none  of  these  things  to  give  advice.  This  institution  will  be 
conducted,  by  the  history  of  Its  being,  to  a  certain  specific 
line  of  work,  to  a  line  that  we  may  call  scientific  in  its  broad- 
est sense,  scientific  In  a  sense  that  would  neglect  neither  the 
spiritual  nor  the  commercial  value  of  science.  Now,  In  that 
broad  sense,  we  look  to  this  institution  to  be  a  mediator  be- 
tween those  two  great  ideas.  And  in  this  work  of  mediation 
it  will  do  great  and  needed  service  to  the  South.  What 
resources  of  the  land  here  are  undeveloped!  Throughout 
our  whole  history  we  have  been  lingering  along,  and  we 
have  followed  along  the  way  of  our  fathers,  believing  that 
what  was  good  enough  for  them  would  be  good  enough  for 
us.  But  now  in  the  South  we  realize  that,  while  we  honor 
the  past,  the  past  is  not  good  enough  for  the  present  and 
much  less  Is  It  good  enough  for  the  future.  Our  leaders 
are  breaking  away  from  the  past  traditions;  they  are  think- 
ing for  themselves,  and  they  are  speaking  for  themselves. 
The  day  Is  near  at  hand  when  Southern  men  shall  again  enter 
in  power  and  influence  the  halls  of  state  which  their  fathers 
held  under  possession  in  the  earlier  years  of  our  national 
history. 

And  so  I  look  to  the  Rice  Institute  to  lead  a  new  South, 
a  South  that  shall  walk  hand  in  hand,  in  science.  Industry, 
and  service,  with  all  other  sections  of  our  country  and  with 
the  whole  world. 

Mayor  Rice  :  Among  the  distinguished  European  scien- 
tists present  this  afternoon  is  Professor  Hugo  de  Vries  of 

1:483 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Amsterdam,  eminent  for  his  researches  In  biology.     I  now 
have  much  pleasure  in  presenting  him  to  you. 

Professor  Hugo  de  Vries  :  Mr.  Governor^  Mr,  Mayor ^ 
Ladies  and  Gentlemen  — \  bring  greetings  from  the  Univer- 
sity of  Amsterdam  to  the  Rice  Institute,  now  entering  upon 
a  university  career  begun  under  conditions  the  most  favor- 
able. The  universities  of  the  old  world  as  well  as  the  uni- 
versities of  the  new  world  welcome  the  advent  of  this  new 
university.  There  is  room  in  the  world  for  more  and  more 
universities,  because  the  tasks  of  science  and  education,  al- 
ways vast,  are  becoming  vaster  and  vaster.  This  is  not  my 
first  visit  to  America.  And  here  in  Houston  and  in  Texas, 
as  on  previous  visits,  I  find  warm  hospitality  and  friendly 
greeting.  I  am  grateful  to  the  president  and  trustees  of  the 
Rice  Institute,  to  the  mayor  and  citizens  of  Houston,  and 
to  the  governor  and  people  of  Texas  for  the  gracious  hos- 
pitality I  am  enjoying  as  their  guest.  For  the  new  university 
I  predict  a  bright  future  full  of  service  to  science  and  to 
Texas.  To  that  prosperous  future  I  raise  my  glass  in  high 
hopes  and  confident  expectation. 

Mayor  Rice:  We  have  listened  to  warm  responses  from 
our  foreign  guests,  and  to  equally  cordial  expressions  from 
American  Institutions  of  the  North,  South,  East,  and  West. 
It  is  now  my  pleasure  to  call  upon  a  university  man  of  Texas 
who  will  respond  for  the  universities  and  colleges  of  this 
State— President  Samuel  Palmer  Brooks  of  Baylor  Uni- 
versity. 

President  Samuel  Palmer  Brooks:  Your  Excellency 
the  Governor^  your  Honor  the  Mayor ^  Ladies  and  Gentle- 
men—I  confess  very  much  personal  embarrassment  that  I, 
a  simple  Texan,  reared  on  the  frontier  of  things,  should  be 

[49] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

associated  here  with  these  distinguished  guests  who  have 
come  from  the  learned  scientific  centers  of  the  world.  I  am 
conscious  of  my  inability  to  measure  language  and  know- 
ledge with  these  men,  skilled  as  all  of  them  are  in  their 
respective  fields. 

Gentlemen  of  the  scientific  world,  you  have  a  welcome  in 
Texas.  What  we  may  lack  in  expressing  this  welcome  we 
fill  full  in  the  bounty  of  our  sincerity.  For  your  learning 
we  have  high  respect.  You  have  ceased  to  surprise  us  by 
your  discoveries.  If  you  shall  reduce  all  old  physical  ele- 
ments to  one,  or  conserve  the  waves  of  the  ever-rolling  sea, 
or  extract  the  heat  of  unmined  coal,  or  find  perpetual  mo- 
tion, or  increase  the  working-hours  of  honey-bees  by  cross- 
ing them  with  lightning-bugs,  we  Texans  will  never  run  from 
the  facts. 

President  Lovett,  Professors  of  Rice  Institute,  Members 
of  the  Board  of  Trustees,  I  give  congratulation  to  you  each 
and  all  on  this  happy  day,  the  culmination  of  labors  that 
make  possible  so  auspicious  an  opening  of  this  promising 
institution. 

Ladies  and  gentlemen  all,  we  here  together  represent  the 
aristocracy  of  science  and  letters,  which  at  last  is  a  pure 
democracy  where  the  merit  of  every  man  counts.  However 
exalted  we  may  become,  we  delight  to  sit  at  the  feet  of  those 
able  to  teach  us.  However  humble  may  be  the  walk  and 
work  of  the  schoolmaster,  it  carries  the  dominant  note  of 
strength,  without  limits  of  language  or  law  or  geography. 
However  many  of  the  old  and  worthy  universities  and  col- 
leges of  the  East  there  may  be,  none  will  fail  to  rejoice  at 
the  coming  of  any  new  institution  giving  promise  of  genuine 
power  in  the  development  of  men.  Right  well  we  know 
there  is  no  competition  in  real  culture. 

As  I  speak  these  words  of  congratulation  on  this  felici- 

1:503 


,<. 


v 
I 


f     / 


\ 


■t  f''  i.l.<  ■*  * 


:      I 


- 

:'»tt/,,/^ 

/^. 

f 

■'' 

'■, 

.yttt^.-  <•««^irv^.i' 

^•de^iUtf 

-r--  f_  fr.''-'r.-l'^' 

'• 

,^/^f0^»f/^i*f-f*'  y%r«v/«^  '• 

*  r 

<  W.f^*4tf^              - 

I 


II 


come 
cor 


TTTF  v^irj:  INSTITUTE 

djstinjnii'^hed  {guests  who  have 

•  ic  cciiicr  svurld.     lam 

measure  lani^uaee  and  know- 

......   in  their 


respective  iieids. 

i  exa^.      "  Vhal  wc 

til]   hiU  he  hount*'    nl 

vour  discover!'*-. 


)u  h?\c  ..  *rf^lrf^me  in 

siiig  this  vveicome  we 

F'or  v(>ur  learning 

cubc^  iipnse  us  oy 

11  old  physical  ele- 

■  -  iv-JKng  sea, 

imd  perpetual  mo- 

ev-hees  by  cross- 

exaas  wul  never  run  from 


tlif  fict? 


i  '   '\  Members 

'  gi\  e  ccfigratuhuion  to  you  each    • 
..^.  i  ic  culmi^  '  -^  labors  that 

make  possible  so  auspicious  an  opening  ui  this  promising 

i  ■  '     '^  c  luTc  ajgether  represent  the 

at  last  is  a  pure 


!   f  ■  <  . 


V  bet 


■  L   wifhoi; . 
Hovi;  many 

letres  of  the  Fast  th- 

powe  (ievr 

.Vs  1  spcaK.  tiv 


However 

o  sic  at  the  teet  of  those 

^le  ^  he  walk  and 

:rnes  the.  dominant  note  of 

iincre  or  \iw  or  <jerMTraphy. 

v>oriiiv'  umversiiics  and  col- 

n  fail  to  rejoice  at 

;  J,      .1^  Piwii.-e  of  genuine 

Ticn.     Kight  well  we  know 

re. 

>rd^  or  cuiigratulation  on  this  felici- 

L-     J 


Aff/y/     (///ff/f^     //ftf/rr/'^ff    //r-/f/^i>€rj  tr/'/^f'f/'^-^^ 


t  ftt/tr/e  fi^     /'^'   jt^ 


'■^f.et^'. 


\/    f  /<'^i/ 


.///^^/u. 


/f  f     r^fr 

yV'/^/^  ^^■^yM^    ■f-rt^o'^if    cyr  /tie^yt-e^^   crt^a^t 


^//  ^^treJ    ^■^r  ft^^ ,,  c^^^.fyi^i^  ,  ^'e^Y.trr^if   /Mf^-,/ 


7 

f/'rr////'/     /y/yyf/     '/-■   '/,f///^       ///'/'./      ^JT     ^vr/VA/rv       r". 

/■'f,      r/y/f//^/     ff/ti//'       rfn^ftir.    Jtr-/i-*-//ff      y-frfV^^A', 
f //       //-/r^^-rr^Utr/'      yfr//ff       /ft^Ai'/fff"       y/ffrc     /4-/y;' 


^ 


y-<2^ej. 


^^^  >^ 


'-co/^M^orwYtu^ 


'^^ 


Jit*tuufi'jiuf  ^.'^:^. 


'-* — 


■  /> 


fit '/I    yff    /rw-f  f  "y^f      r/f^ /fr/f/fff  fzf      r^  f^f   f^/yfryny 

-^'^<'/t^    A^r*^-^  ya^y/ir    jf/  c^t^^/^<f^r     f  M^^/rf^^t^ 
ftt^y/t.Ut/^</e*/t<t^e^tf*,^*Jr^    /f//r//^    r/  <  //r'^z  fry. 


■i^/rrfr    /tv/fivrr/r/'/<'fff    ,f/ yrA<  ft// f^j  .tffftff/^ 


/ff/r    /re: 

y^/fz/ff/ir.^f'ffr^  vr  /tJ  ry/rtf/yf.rf  t/r/f^fr/'fffff^ yrrt 
Jt/ft  ft^'frtfrt  r/  (f //yi/cJo'f'ffffir/'  '^/fff/tf7{/yftyl^^^ 
^yj/ktrf/r  .  ^/■^w//^  ^re^/f/W-ee^  /t^yr^f  *yyye^>^J^  *r 
j/i^  /?/  f/rt/t,'  c/^-t^t/f/ft  /rtyt^^-  frff^.rrft/>y  /tr 
f/e/t///      <f    y/tf^/tftr       //fr^t/ft'ffy    -rff^u/t^-J    r/rrr. 


y. 


f/f<t/,rf     /f</vf-tJ      tfrtf/rff/ff/fu     ffy/f'fff^ 


fry/ 


^■jtfv/iu/ff/rt^     /tu/rtft //fif       /t/  rf/cfZ/j     fl^'t/t-J    //■ 
^t7.f/^fcj      /f//yi^rfr/ar^ ,     /-rrr'f      ^tfCf/e/'.fryff^    rr 

/  y,/  .y 

yAat/u^/i.     -^  f //tff^.  f/ce  /  e^f/i /fe</  y^tf 

y  ^  , 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

tous  occasion,  I  do  not  forget  the  true  and  tried  work  of  the 
institutions  of  learning  in  Texas.  While  young  to  you,  I 
remind  you  that  Baylor  University  received  its  charter  from 
the  Republic  of  Texas,  which  in  the  council-chamber  of  the 
nations  of  the  earth  for  ten  years  was  counted  worthy  to  sit 
in  the  person  of  its  ambassadors.  Her  students  have  walked 
untrodden  places  and  welcomed  learning  from  any  source. 
Baylor  as  a  private  institution  does  not  work  alone.  By  her 
side  in  fidelity  to  truth  and  service  have  walked  Southwest- 
ern, Austin  College,  and  others  of  fewer  years.  I  ask  you 
to  look  out  upon  the  work  of  the  University  of  Texas,  whose 
president  and  representatives  are  with  us  to-day.  Its  gradu- 
ates are  actually  sitting  in  the  councils  of  learning  and  power 
the  world  over.  Nor  do  I  forget  the  Agricultural  and  Me- 
chanical College,  whose  purpose  has  been,  and  is,  to  dignify 
the  knowledge  of  things  pertaining  to  the  earth  and  the 

handicrafts  of  men. 

All  Texas  institutions  are  ready  to  learn  and  to  utilize  the 
experience  of  others.  We  do  not  work  for  ourselves,  but 
for  our  country.  We  do  not  put  limits  on  what  we  call  our 
country.  We  love  our  State,  our  nation;  we  love  the  world, 
and  believe  heartily  that  we  are  a  part  of  it.  We  believe  in 
the  brotherhood  of  man,  and  that  God  Is  no  respecter  of 
persons.    Our  work  is  world-wide. 

On  behalf  of  the  educational  Institutions  of  Texas  which 
I  have  the  honor  to  represent,  let  me  give  thanks  to  the 
president  and  trustees  of  the  Rice  Institute  for  the  pleasures 
of  this  day,  and  hope  for  them  fields  of  usefulness  as  broad 
as  the  world.  With  you,  sirs,  we  join  hands  in  common  ser- 
vice  for  the  advancement  of  the  human  race. 


I 


11 


Mayor  Rice:  On  behalf  of  our  citizens,  I  thank  all  these 
gentlemen  most  warmly  for  the  addresses  with  which  they 


1 

i 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

have  honored  us  on  this  occasion.  I  beg  also  to  assure  them 
and  all  of  you  that  the  welcome  which  we  have  extended  at 
this  time  has  no  limit  either  of  duration  or  season.  We  want 
you  to  stay  not  only  through  the  celebration  of  the  next  few 
days,  but  just  as  much  longer  as  you  can  conveniently  ar- 
range to  remain  with  us,  and  we  want  you  to  return  to  see 
us  just  as  often  as  you  can.  Before  closing  the  exercises,  I 
extend  a  cordial  invitation  to  all  our  guests  to  sit  with  the 
governor  and  his  staff  for  a  group  picture  that  is  to  be  taken 
in  front  of  this  auditorium,  immediately  following  the  ad- 
journment of  this  meeting. 


AFTERNOON   MUSICALE 

TENDERED  TO  THE  GUESTS  AND  FRIENDS  OF  THE  RICE 
INSTITUTE  OF  LIBERAL  AND  TECHNICAL  LEARNING,  BY  THE 
TRUSTEES,  ON  THE  OCCASION  OF  THE  DEDICATION  CERE- 
MONIES AT  THE  MAJESTIC  THEATER,  HOUSTON,  TEXAS, 
'fRIDAY,  OCTOBER  ii,  1912,  AT  THREE  O'CLOCK 


THE  KNEISEL  QUARTET 


FRANZ  KNEISEL,  iST  violin 
HANS  LETZ,  2ND  violin 


LOUIS  SVECENSKI,  viola 
WILLEM  WILLEKE,  violoncello 


PROGRAM 


Mozart 


QUARTET  IN  C  MAJOR 

adagio-allegro 
andante  cantabile 
menuetto  ( allegretto) 
allegro  molto 

THEME  AND  VARIATIONS  (DEATH  AND  THE  MAIDEN) 

FROM  QUARTET  IN  D  MINOR,  OP.  POSTHUMOUS  .     .  Schubert 

TWO  MOVEMENTS  FROM  QUARTET  IN  G  MINOR  .     .     .    Debussy 

andantino  doucement  expressif 
assez  vif  et  bien  rythme 


MENUETTO  AND  FUGUE  FROM  QUARTET  IN 
C  MAJOR,  OP.  59 


Beethoven 


% 


I 


ii 

ii 


ns23 


D33 


11 


EVENING 
CHAMBER   CONCERT 

GIVEN  IN  HONOR  OF  THE  INAUGURAL  LECTURERS,  ON  THE 
OCCASION  OF  THE  DEDICATION  CEREMONIES  OF  THE  RICE 
INSTITUTE  OF  LIBERAL  AND  TECHNICAL  LEARNING,  AT 
HOUSTON,  TEXAS,  FRIDAY  EVENING,  OCTOBER  ii,  1912,  AT 
EIGHT-THIRTY  O'CLOCK,  IN  THE  FACULTY  ROOM 


THE  KNEISEL  QUARTET 


FRANZ  KNEISEL,  iST  violin 
HANS  LETZ,  2ND  violin 


LOUIS  SVECENSKI,  viola 
WILLEM  WILLEKE,  violoncello 


TOASTS  AND  RESPONSES 

AT  THE  SUPPER  GIVEN  BY  THE  TRUSTEES 

AT  THE  RESIDENTIAL  HALL 

IN  HONOR  OF 
THE  INAUGURAL  LECTURERS 


I 


PROGRAM 


QUARTET  IN  D  MAJOR 

allegretto-allegro 
largo  (cantabile  Ernesto) 

MENUETTO   (ALLEGRO) 
FINALE    (presto) 

SUITE  IN  D  MAJOR  FOR  CELLO  SOLO 

MR.  WILLEKE 


Haydn 


Bach 


THEME  AND  VARIATIONS  FROM  QUARTET  IN 
A  MAJOR,  OP.  2 


QUARTET  IN  G  MINOR,  OP.  27 

UN  POCO  ANDANTE-ALLEGRO   MOLTO  ED  AGITATO 
ROMANZE    (ANDANTINO) 

INTERMEZZO    (ALLEGRO   MOLTO  MARCATO) 
FINALE   (LENTO-PRESTO  AL  SALTARELLO) 


Gliere 
.  Grieg 


TO  BE  FOLLOWED  BY  A  SUPPER  AT  THE  RESIDENTIAL  HALL  COMMONS 


n54] 


k 


) 


4 


TOASTS  AND  RESPONSES  AT  THE  SUPPER  GIVEN  BY 
THE  TRUSTEES  AT  THE  RESIDENTIAL  HALL  IN 
HONOR  OF  THE  INAUGURAL  LECTURERS 

President  Lovett:  Ladies  and  Gentlemen— This  even- 
ing's program,  arranged  by  the  trustees  in  honor  of  the 
Inaugural  Lecturers  of  the  Rice  Institute,  began  with  a  con- 
cert of  the  Kneisel  Quartet  in  the  Faculty  Chamber,  and 
has  been  continued  by  the  supper  of  which  we  have  just  par- 
taken in  the  first  formal  function  of  its  kind  to  be  held  m 
the  Commons  of  our  first  Residential  College.  The  conclud- 
ing part  of  the  program  presents  a  most  inviting  prospect 
of  the  Founder's  high  purposes,  for  we  have  asked  Drs.  van 
Dyke,  Conklin,  and  Cram  to  respond  for  Literature,  Science, 
and  Art,   respectively,  while  Professors  Altamira,  Jones, 
Borel,  Volterra,  Ramsay,  and  de  Vries  have  consented  to 
speak  in  turn  on  History,  Philosophy,  Mathematics,  Physics, 
Chemistry,  and  Biology.    And  to  preserve  as  far  as  possible 
a  balance  between  science  and  the  humanities,  which  we  have 
sought  to  hold  throughout  all  the  academic  events  of  these 
three  days,  the  responses  this  evening  will  occur  in  the  fol- 
lowing order:  Literature,  Mathematics,  Philosophy,  Phys- 
ics, Science,  Chemistry,  History,  Biology,  and  Art. 

On  finding  myself  with  Sir  Henry  on  my  left  and  Sir 
William  on  my  right  and  their  equally  eminent  seven  col- 
leagues both  right  and  left,  I  feel  to-night  as  the  man  did 
respecting  the  Shakspere-Bacon  controversy.  He  said  he 
didn't  know  whether  Bacon  wrote  Shakspere's  plays  or  not, 
but  if  he  didn't  he  missed  the  greatest  opportunity  of  his  life. 
We  believe  that  the  gentleman  whom  I  am  about  to  intro- 
duce to  you  has  written  most  of  his  own  verses  and  stories, 
but,  nevertheless,  his  contemporaries  have  found  in  all  of 

[57] 


\ 


II 


l\ 


*> 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

them  a  cipher,  and  wherever  this  cipher  turns  up  it  says  one 
and  the  same  thing:  The  man  who  wrote  these  lines  was  a 
lover  of  nature  and  a  lover  of  men.  And  consonant  with 
this  cipher  one  finds  ''love,  beauty,  joy,  and  worship,"  which, 
as  Plotlnus  says  on  the  great  arch  of  the  sally-port  yonder, 
"are  forever  building,  unbuilding,  and  rebuilding  in  each 
man's  soul."  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  have  the  honor  of 
calling  on  Dr.  Henry  van  Dyke,  man  of  letters,  faithful 
friend,  poet  laureate  of  the  Rice  Institute,  who  will  respond 
for  "Literature." 

Dr.  Henry  van  Dyke  :  Nothing  ought  to  surprise  those 
who  have  been  the  guests  of  Texas  at  the  inauguration  of 
the  Rice  Institute,  and  nothing  ever  after  can  be  too  good 
for  them.  We  have  been  lifted  by  the  springtide  of  your 
hospitality  to  the  absolute  high-water  mark,  and  henceforth 
we  must  measure  festivals  by  comparison  with  this. 

One  thing,  however,  has  astonished  me  a  little  during 
these  days,  and  that  is  to  find  so  many  "lions"  in  Texas: 
academic  lions,  scientific  lions,  lions  of  the  world  of  higher 
education.  Among  these  distinguished  representatives  of 
famous  institutions,  these  doctors  of  many  degrees,  a  simple 
shepherd  of  the  hills  can  understand  how  Daniel  must  have 
felt  in  the  lions'  den— perfectly  safe  but  somewhat  embar- 
rassed. 

I  do  not  represent  any  learned  Institution,  any  scientific 
theory,  any  school  of  philosophy.  Merely  because  I  have 
written  a  few  stories  and  a  few  verses,  I  have  been  asked  to 
speak  for  Literature. 

Literature  Is  that  one  of  the  arts  which  works  with  the 
least  costly  of  all  materials— words— to  embody  the  most 
precious  of  all  human  possessions— ideas.  Any  language 
that  has  expressed  noble  thought  and  feeling  In  lucid  form 

CS8] 


UNIVERSIDAD  •  DE  •  OVIEDO 


jf^^ 


n 


I 


.V,  A 


ft  /c 


J 


.♦ 


^*r' 


I 


f  rtf<it  Jtt/c^riSffi^ 


wiorc  taese  noes  was  a 
T^er        \nd  consonanr  with 

iup,    which, 

,:iilv-i.         yonder, 

-.^  in  each 

*'onor  ol: 

fnirhful 

iO  wiii  iespond 


"  c 


se  those 

*'-''^n  of 

o  ^ood 

our 

icuccjcirin 

risnn  with  this. 

during 

'^  exas : 

\'^  ni  higher 

.      escntatives  of 

lei/rees,  a  simple 

iiuiit  auv  e 

ar- 

itution,  any  scientific 

lavt  Hvefi  asKCiJ  to 

'    the 

'ody  the  most 

i  mguage 

jcid  form 


INIVERSIDAD  •  DE  •  OVIEDO 


(/ 1  Jl/rn&  Jr  Jh  (f(&r  ft  ( fattj/re 
r/f  fa  //ji/mjfr/arl  f/(  O/'ffr/o  (^ypU7)a  ) 

(CTiititfriait  ft  jH  anfttr/tr   Kj/refeo^f 

otf  J^a/rif/ Jy^fla//ifra '  frfi(n 
onra  M/f/a<ar  'raf/rna/menii 

'^ /eciia nt7«*/a  /}cr  fn  tnautjaraf/cn 


ti  /latt  /(rr/frr/fy  t^c/(^  /jcr  Ml  /}r/*3p(rtaatf , 


.     0  her  j/i  /jr/*3: 

,(^(71(4^^0  /n  Oxt/f/a  «*fffen->r 
a  fnantfttr  certtta/fJ  rr/aftonfy 

fn  /'/(ft  !■/(  (ft  rn/fetrrr 
fen  J/t  rirtrrn    //frninnn  f/f   L?fxay 

at  mi  >/nc  (ifntht>  ct4f  rtntte 
rtjoeftnyic  trt/-aff  f/f  fZf/nttmft^n 
n  '  f(nfr<>oc   iti'if/af/or' 

lA///fnmy//nrj//  Jltct 


(  t  Autcr 


fr/ff/c  M  f/f  (ffta/n  f/f  /9/Z 

/ 1  Jfeff/tlrte  fjftifmf 


I' 


< 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

becomes  classic.  Any  race  that  has  succeeded  in  producing 
real  literature,  by  virtue  of  that  production  becomes  immor- 
tal. The  one  thing  that  does  not  die  is  the  well-chosen  word 
whose  soul  is  the  well-born  thought. 

Literature  is  the  most  humane  and  intimate  of  all  the 
arts.  It  comes  closest  to  the  common  life  of  man.  Good 
books  help  us  to  understand  our  own  hearts.  They  open 
the  world  to  us.  They  are  revealers  and  interpreters, 
friends  and  counselors.  They  liberate  us,  at  least  for  a  little 
while,  from  the  slavery  of  time  and  space.  And  while  the 
other  arts  in  their  perfection  are  not  always  accessible  to 
those  who  are  not  rich  in  this  world's  goods,  the  best  litera- 
ture is  usually  the  cheapest. 

There  has  been  a  good  deal  of  talk  about  an  ''American 
literature."  American  literature  has  begun.  It  began  when 
the  life  of  the  American  people  became  conscious  of  deep 
thought  and  true  feeling,  and  took  expression  in  literary 
form.  It  will  continue  and  grow  and  develop,  this  American 
literature,  just  as  the  life  of  the  people  of  America  becomes 
deep,  strong,  vital,  and  sane.  It  cannot  be  made  to  order. 
It  cannot  be  made  on  a  cook-book  recipe.  It  cannot  be  made 
by  any  plan  of  localism,  or  by  the  division  of  the  country 
into  geographical  sections,  so  that  we  shall  have  a  literary 
school  of  the  southern  half  of  Indiana,  or  a  literary  school 
of  the  eastern  corner  of  the  northern  half  of  Texas.  That 
is  not  the  way  literature  is  made.  Literature  will  grow 
when  the  life  of  America  is  so  enriched  with  deeper  emotion 
and  thought  that  it  must  find  expression  in  our  common  and 
classic  English  tongue. 

Literature  cannot  be  taught.  There  are  things  in  our  uni- 
versities that  we  call  "chairs  of  literature."  Those  who 
occupy  them,  if  they  are  doing  their  duty,  are  simply  "teach- 
ers of  reading"— that  is  all.     Literature  cannot  be  taught, 

[59] 


<. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

any  more  than  any  other  of  the  higher  arts  can  be  taught. 
You  cannot  make  a  literary  man  by  instruction  in  a  class- 
room. You  can  correct  his  grammar.  You  can  correct  his 
spelling;  that  is  to  say,  you  can  do  something  in  that  direc- 
tion as  long  as  the  "Simplified  Spellers"  remain  in  abeyance. 
But  you  cannot  make  him  a  writer,  any  more  than  you  can 
make  him  a  sculptor,  unless  Nature  has  bestowed  the  gift. 

The  best  that  we  can  do  for  Literature  in  our  universities 
is  this:  to  cultivate  an  appreciation  for  that  which  is  finest 
and  most  humane  in  the  writings  of  the  past;  to  teach  young 
men  and  women  to  know  the  difference  between  a  book  that 
is  well  written  and  a  book  that  is  badly  written;  to  give  them 
a  standard  by  which  they  may  judge  and  measure  their  own 
efforts  at  self-expression;  and  to  inspire  in  the  few  who  have 
an  irresistible  impulse  to  write,  a  sincere  desire  to  find  a 
clear,  vivid,  and  memorable  form  for  the  utterance  of  the 
best  that  is  in  them. 

This  is  something  which  I  think  the  university  may  well 
propose  to  itself  as  one  of  its  high  objects:  to  promote  the 
love  of  good  literature,  and  to  endeavor  that  no  one  shall 
obtain  an  academic  degree  who  does  not  know  how  to  read 
— to  read  between  the  lines,  to  read  behind  the  words,  to 
enter  through  the  printed  page  into  a  deeper  knowledge  of 
life. 

I  hope  that  the  Rice  Institute,  with  its  magnificent  outlook 
toward  science,  will  produce  scientific  men  who  shall  be  at 
the  same  time  men  of  true  culture,  who  shall  illustrate  that 
type  of  science  whose  representatives  we  have  listened  to 
here— men  whose  knowledge  of  the  facts  and  laws  of  the 
physical  world  does  not  blind  them  to  the  beauty  and  power 
of  those  ideals,  memories,  imaginations,  and  hopes  which 
are  perpetuated  in  literature  for  the  cheer  and  guidance  of 
mankind. 

[60] 


I 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

President  Lovett:  It  was  at  the  Sorbonne,  I  believe, 
that  the  first  conspicuous  public  reference  to  the  plans  of  the 
Rice  Institute  was  made,  and  in  one  of  the  lectures  which, 
as  visiting  professor,  the  last  speaker  delivered  on  the 
^'Spirit  of  America.''  We  have  with  us  on  this  occasion  a 
distinguished  permanent  member  of  the  University  of  Paris. 
By  way  of  making  him  feel  more  at  home  at  the  table  of  this 
Residential  Hall,  I  venture  to  remind  him  that  his  own 
ancient  university  was  originally  composed  of  residential 
colleges,  and  that  the  Ecole  Normale,  whose  scientific 
studies  he  directs,  is  itself  a  residential  college.  Further- 
more, the  subject  which  he  represents  has  a  great  community 
of  interest  both  to  the  scientific  and  to  the  lay  mind,  for 
mathematics  is  as  fundamental  as  logic  itself  to  scientific 
inquiry,  and  shares  with  music  the  distinction  of  being  a 
survivor  of  the  Tower  of  Babel.  On  this  high  and  noble 
theme  I  now  ask  Professor  Borel  to  speak. 

Professor  Emile  Borel:  President  Lovett  has  very 
kindly  asked  me  to  speak  to  you  this  evening  concerning  the 
role  of  mathematics  in  the  domain  of  culture.  It  is  a  sub- 
ject  which  seems  somewhat  dry  and  rather  difficult  to  treat 
in  an  after-dinner  speech.  Mathematics  is  rarely  considered 
to  be  an  appropriate  subject  for  conversation  by  those  who 
are  not  mathematicians.  People  generally  think  that  the 
science  of  numbers  has  no  very  Intimate  connection  with  life, 
and  that  mathematicians  might  without  great  loss  to  civiliza- 
tion remain  shut  up  In  their  towers  of  Ivory.  Nevertheless, 
It  Is  Impossible  not  to  recall  that  twenty-five  centuries  ago, 
under  a  sky  as  beautiful  as  is  yours.  It  was  precisely  through 
abstract  speculations  that  the  great  geometers  began  the  lib- 
eration of  the  human  reason.  From  these  speculations 
geometry,  algebra,  mechanics,  astronomy,  and  physics  have 

[;6i:] 


< 


flwf^ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

sprung.  Through  the  logical  play  of  his  reason  man  has 
given  himself  an  account  of  the  laws  which  regulate  the 
w^orld.  He  has  come  to  comprehend  that  blind  chance  does 
not  preside  over  the  destinies  of  the  universe,  and  that  the 
concepts  accessible  to  the  mind  of  geometers  can  serve  to 
penetrate  the  great  laws  of  nature.  Therefore  he  has  come 
to  use  these  laws  for  the  profit  of  human  civilization.  Ac- 
cordingly, the  mathematical  reason  is  the  basis  of  man's  con- 
quest of  the  universe.  Is  it  not  by  virtue  of  mathematics 
that  navigation  of  the  seas  has  become  possible?  If  the 
thinkers  had  not  meditated  upon  certain  abstract  laws,  could 
any  vessel  have  been  able  to  plow  through  the  waves  of  the 
Atlantic?  It  is  to  mathematics  that  Christopher  Columbus 
owed,  exactly  four  hundred  and  twenty  years  ago,  his  ability 
to  reach  in  safety  these  unknown  shores.  And  they  are  the 
heirs  of  Greek  thought  who,  realizing  the  great  scientific 
movement  of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries,  have 
made  possible  the  great  industrial  inventions  of  the  nine- 
teenth century,  the  organization  and  conquest  of  the  globe 
by  human  civilization. 

The  mathematicians  are  the  pioneers  of  science.  Often 
indeed  their  work  is  several  centuries  in  advance  of  prac- 
tical applications,  but,  without  their  works,  discoveries  the 
most  admirable  would  have  failed  of  any  practical  applica- 
tion. It  is  not  sufficient  to  observe  the  facts:  it  is  necessary 
to  know  the  laws  which  govern  these  facts.  Every  one 
knows  that  the  stone  he  drops  will  fall  to  the  ground;  mathe- 
matics alone  has  given,  with  respect  to  this  fact  which  ap- 
pears so  simple,  explications  and  formulae  which  have  been 
permitted  most  admirable  mechanical  applications. 

The  Rice  Institute  preserves  by  the  side  of  letters  and  art 
a  place  for  the  sciences — for  the  mathematical  sciences 
among  others.     In  addition  to  the  practical  utility  of  which 

1:62] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

I  have  just  spoken,  the  mathematical  sciences  have  an  intel- 
lectual utility  in  the  development  of  the  human  spirit.  They 
accustom  the  intellect  to  the  use  of  a  rigorous  and  clear-cut 
logic;  they  render  the  understanding  tractable  to  finesse  of 
intuition  and  induction.  I  trust  that  in  so  magnificent  a  new 
university  as  is  the  Rice  Institute  mathematics  may  make 
many  adepts.  For  if  mathematical  culture  should  be  re- 
moved from  the  world,  scientific  culture  would  become  as  a 
tree  whose  roots  had  been  cut.  And  in  conclusion  I  raise  my 
glass  to  Mathematics  and  the  prosperity  of  the  Rice  Insti- 
tute. 

President  Lovett  :  The  gentleman  who  has  just  spoken 
would  agree  with  Gauss  that  mathematics  is  "the  queen  of 
the  sciences.''  The  eminent  philosopher  who  is  about  to 
speak  would  insist  that  philosophy  is  the  science  of  the  sci- 
ences, the  glory  and  the  guardian  of  all  the  sciences.  We 
have  paid  our  tribute  to  philosophy  on  the  chief  stone  of  our 
first  building,  where  one  may  read  the  tribute  Democritus 
paid  to  science  for  its  own  sake  when  he  exclaimed:  "Rather 
would  I  discover  the  cause  of  one  fact  than  become  king  of 
the  Persians."  This  fine  expression  of  the  spirit  of  science 
on  the  part  of  the  ancient  Greek  philosopher  is  rather  more 
generous  than  is  the  attitude  of  the  average  modern  scientist 
toward  philosophy. 

The  intensely  human  philosopher  on  my  left  has  told  me 
in  conversation  this  evening  that  to  get  a  speech  out  of  him 
to-night  it  would  be  necessary  to  stir  his  temper.  It  is  in  the 
affection  inspired  in  all  of  us  by  the  earnest  appeal  of  his 
discourse  as  the  sun  was  setting  last  evening  that  I  venture 
to  apply  the  necessary  lash.  To  him  there  may  perhaps  be 
some  stimulus  in  that  ancient  characterization  of  a  meta- 
physician—a characterization  so  old,  in  fact,  that  the  mind 


1 


if 

I 


< 


''*'-*tif<iHr<Lr'- 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

of  man  runneth  not  to  the  contrary— namely,  that  a  meta- 
physician is  a  blind  man  in  a  dark  room  groping  after  a  black 
cat— that  is  not  there!  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  have  very 
great  pleasure  in  asking  Professor  Sir  Henry  Jones  to  tell 
us  what  Philosophy  is. 

Professor  Sir  Henry  Jones:  Surely  the  hour  of  parting 
has  come,  if  it  is  to  come  at  all,  and  my  stay  amongst  you  is  not 
to  be  permanent.  It  is  not  only  the  smallness  of  the  hours  of 
the  night  that  suggests  it,  but  the  words  we  have  just  heard 
from  the  president.  For  what  he  has  said  indicates  all  too 
clearly  that  matters  are  maturing  fast  toward  that  condition 
when  parting  will  be  impossible.  He  has  made  himself  so 
lovable  that  his  very  incivilities  are  adorable.  And  incivilities 
they  are !  What  more  incivil  thing  could  he  suggest  to  a 
votary  of  Philosophy  than  that  his  goddess  is  antiquated— 
that  he  belongs  of  right  to  ages  long  past,  and  civilizations 
whose  sun  has  set,  and  is  out  of  place  in  a  country  where  the 
sun  is  just  rising  and  the  fullness  and  joy  of  the  day  is  all 

to  come? 

And  yet  I  thank  him  for  that  word.  I  shall  connect  it 
always  with  a  memory  which  will  remain  extraordinarily 
impressive  to  me  — of  the  first  plea  ever  made  for  Philos- 
ophy in  your  new  Institute.  We  were  considering  some  of 
the  things  that  matter  most,  contemplating  for  a  brief  mo- 
ment some  of  those  truths  which,  because  they  belong  to  the 
moral  structure  of  the  world,  cannot  come  to  be  nor  pass 
away,  and  have  neither  beginning  nor  end,  but  remain  stable 
forever.  The  level  rays  of  the  sun,  far-flung  over  the  lonely 
prairie  which  begins  from  the  building  wherein  we  sat,  struck 
through  the  windows  of  the  lecture-hall,  and  they  were  satu- 
rated with  the  beauty  of  some  nameless  color,  and  carried 
with  them  far  into  the  heart  of  the  audience  a  most  strange 

[64;] 


^1 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

sense  of  silence  and  tranquillity.  I  felt  anew  the  truth  of 
the  word  of  the  wise  man  who  said  that  "Philosophy  does 
not  appear  until  some  form  of  civilization  has  grown  old.'' 
Then,  indeed,  it  gathers  up  its  meaning  and  treasures  it  for 
the  ages  still  to  come.  So  that  it  is  to  Philosophy,  whether 
it  be  in  the  form  of  art  or  that  of  contemplative  reason,  we 
owe  now  the  spiritual  inspiration  of  the  life  of  Israel,  the 
natural  glory  of  the  life  of  Greece,  and  the  stately  civic 
order  of  the  life  of  Rome.  We  did  well  to  meet  in  the 
evening  at  the  altar  of  her  goddess.  The  owl  of  Minerva, 
the  bird  of  wisdom,  does  not  set  forth  on  its  flight  till  the 
twilight  begins  to  fall. 

But  what  is  Philosophy?  some  of  you  may  ask.  Science 
we  know,  and  Art  we  know,  and  Literature  we  know:  to 
these  we  have  dedicated  our  Institute;  but  who  or  what  is 
Philosophy?  I  am  tempted  to  define  it  just  as  that  for  which 
there  is  no  provision  in  the  Rice  Institute;  but  I  would  like 
to  add  to  the  definition,  that  provision  will  be  made,  and 
more  amply  when  the  Institute  matures.  "You  w^ait,"  said  a 
Chicago  man  to  a  Boston  man  who  had  taunted  him  with 
sticking  pigs  as  the  only  form  of  culture  in  his  city— "you 
wait  till  we  have  stuck  a  few  more  pigs,  and  Chicago  will 
make  culture  hum!"  There  have  been  times  in  the  world's 
history,  or  at  least  in  that  of  the  most  beneficent  of  the 
nations,  when  Philosophy,  the  contemplative  reconstruction 
of  experience,  the  converse  of  the  human  spirit  with  itself, 
by  which  it  makes  its  treasures  its  own,  was  their  crowning 
achievement  and  the  most  splendid  of  all  their  enterprises. 
And  that  time  will,  I  believe,  come  yet  to  you  in  this  great 
country. 

Another  definition  of  Philosophy  has  occurred  to  me  since 
coming  into  this  room,  on  hearing  the  delightful  speech  of 
Professor  Emile  Borel  of  Paris.     It  is  the  study  to  which 

1:653 


1 


/ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

great  mathematicians  are  prone  to  turn  when  their  minds 
mature.  Plato,  the  broad-browed,  in  whose  writing  poetry 
and  philosophy,  beauty  and  truth,  mingled  their  pure  broad 
streams;  Aristotle,  possibly  the  greatest  sheer  intellect  that 
the  world  ever  saw,  who  fixed  even  until  this  day  the  prov- 
inces of  so  many  of  the  sciences;  Descartes,  the  greatest 
philosopher  that  France  ever  knew,  and  the  prophet  of  the 
dawn  of  the  modern  world;  Spinoza,  probably  the  most 
seraphic  of  all  great  thinkers;  Leibnitz,  one  of  the  most 
many-sided;  and  Immanuel  Kant,  with  whose  thinking  mod- 
ern civilization,  like  a  broad  river  striking  a  granite  bank, 
has  taken  its  last  great  turn-all  these  were  amongst  the 
greatest,  if  not  the  greatest  mathematicians  of  their  day. 

It  was  entirely  natural  that  these  great,  grave,  reflective 
spirits  should  be  led,  as  life  advanced,  to  consider  those 
problems  which,  as  they  spring  from  the  very  nature  of 
truth,  reason  cannot  set  aside  and  prosper.  And  it  was  not 
less  natural  that  the  severity  of  the  method  of  the  mathe- 
matical sciences  should  make  them  strong  in  the  service  of 
Philosophy,  where,  if  possible,  severity  of  method  is  at  once 
more  necessary  and  more  difficult.  For  Philosophy  sets  man 
to  strive  to  comprehend  the  working,  not  merely  of  natural 
agents  as  the  sciences  do,  but  of  the  experience  in  which  the 
meaning  of  nature  in  its  relation  to  man,  and  of  man  in  his 
relation  to  nature,  is  arrested.  It  deals  with  the  finer  spirit, 
and  the  final  issues,  for  it  deals  with  facts  as  embodied  in 
the  world  of  interrelated  minds  and  intersecting  and  yet 
co-operating  wills  which  civilization  is.  Laxity  of  method, 
tendencies  toward  prejudices,  antipathy  save  to  error,  love 
except  for  truth,  are  in  this  region  fatal.  For  here  we  are 
dealing  wath  ultimate  values. 

A  great  day  is  coming  when  man  shall  comprehend  the 
w^orking  of  his  own  spirit  to  the  degree  in  which  the  sciences 

[;66:] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

reveal  the  meaning  of  nature;  though  these  latter  are  them- 
selves, no  doubt,  only  at  the  beginning  of  things.  For  Phi- 
losophy is  meant  to  crown  the  work  of  Science,  even  as  Man, 
we  believe,  is  the  consummation  of  the  natural  scheme. 

Then,  too,  the  affinity  of  Philosophy  with  Art,  and  espe- 
cially with  the  Art  of  Poetry,  will  become  manifest.  For, 
in  my  opinion,  the  poet  and  the  philosopher  are  very  much 
akin.  They  are,  as  a  rule,  both  present  and  in  power  where 
the  history  of  mankind  shows  that  new  times  have  come  to 
the  birth.  If  you  were  to  ask  me  who  in  the  English-speak- 
ing world  were  the  greatest  philosophers,  I  should  be 
tempted  to  name  the  poets  in  prose  and  verse,  especially  Car- 
lyle,  Wordsworth,  and  Browning. 

But  the  night  is  far  spent,  and  the  theme  is  too  great 
except  to  touch  its  margin.  I  can  wish  nothing  better  for  the 
Rice  Institute  than  that  it  may  for  many  centuries  to  come  be 
the  fostering  home  of  Art,  Science,  and  Philosophy.  You 
have  treated  me  and  my  fellow-guests  with  extraordinary 
kindness,  and  if  you  can  entertain  a  philosopher  so  well  now, 
I  have  no  doubt  that  ere  long  you  will  "entertain  that 
stranger"— Philosophy. 

President  Lovett:  In  thanking  Professor  Sir  Henry 
Jones  for  his  eloquent  apology  for  philosophy,  I  venture  to 
say  that  our  scheme  of  studies  has  been  so  arranged  in  the 
belief  that  if  philosophy  and  science  are  to  go  hand  in  hand 
in  our  day,  as  they  did  in  the  earlier  days  of  human  thought, 
It  becomes  more  and  more  necessary  that  the  student  of 
philosophy  should  have  considerable  acquaintance  with 
chemistry,  physics,  biology,  and  the  other  experimental  sci- 
ences before  entering  upon  the  serious  study  of  philosophy 
itself.  We  have  among  our  guests  the  distinguished  mathe- 
matical  physicist   of  the   University  of   Rome,   w^hose   re- 

1:67: 


\ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

searches  have  ranged  from  the  physics  of  the  earth  through 
the  physics  of  the  ether  to  the  motions  o  the  heavenly 
bodies  themselves.  I  have  the  honor  of  askmg  Pro  essor 
Senator  Vito  Volterra  to  respond  for  this  fundamental  field 
of  knowledge,  wherein  pure  mathematics  has  met  with  some 
success  the  problems  of  the  physical  universe. 

Professor  Senator  Vito  Volterra  :  Without  doubt  we 
shall  never  forget  the  days  that  we  have  spent  at  Houston. 
I  do  not  hesitate  to  call  the  inauguration  ot  such  an  institute 
as  this  an  historic  event :  it  is  one  that  will  have  consequences 
of  great  importance  for  culture  in  general.  Beginning  in 
this  impressive  manner,  endowed  with  means  so  large,  di- 
rected by  men  so  eminent,  it  is  sure  to  have  a  considerable 
influence  on  the  development  of  science. 

It  would  not  fit  the  case  exactly  to  speak  of  pure  science 
and  of  applications.  By  giving  a  solid  base  to  culture,  you 
are  certain  to  prepare  the  new  generations  not  only  to  con- 
tribute to  scientific  progress,  but  also  to  be  ready  to  apply 
the  resources  of  science  to  its  most  useful  applications. 

The  physical  sciences,  pure  physics  in  the  most  general 
sense  of  the  word,  give  the  most  opportune  illustration  of 
what  I  have  just  said.    It  is  sufficient  to  consider  the  devel- 
opments that  have  taken  place  in  the  last  few  years,  and  the 
influence  that  these  developments  have  had  on  the  general 
concept  of  science  that  the  public  has  found  for  itself.     In 
the  development  of  physics,  the  most  completely  theoretical 
part,  which  we  call  mathematical  physics,  and  the  experi- 
mental part,  have  always  progressed  side  by  side,  each  an 
aid  to  the  other.     Some  branches,  indeed,  that  at  first  sight 
seem  far  remote,  we  observe  upon  closer  inspection  to  have 
had  considerable  influence  on  each  other. 

Consider,  for  instance,  the  case  of  astronomy,  or,  more 

n683 


HARVARD  UNIVERSITY 

accepts  wjth  pleasure  ihc  kind  iijvitstion  *>^  the 

IVe8kl«nt  and  Tn.:?'^^'^'  o< 

The  Rice  Ins&tuit. 

in  tiiC 

City  of  Houstoffi.  Ttxm 

tt>  bt    v^.^icnted  :eU^^^'^^    .s  ^Hr  t-^t^nhe-    »»tendant  upon 

mc  opcQtng  v  . 

and  twelfth  oi  Oaobcr,  ninctern   humir«^i  ^nd    fv^^i' 
jQ}fmtn«ed    as    jts    ddc^ate    on    that    occasion.    H.'srn     ^  andeli 
Rmjch!  cL   Ph.D.,   Prok&soi   •>{    Apphcd    Mathcrnai;.  he   Lni- 


vrt?»«lj    w 


Given    ar   Cambndgie   • 


first    day  c*    Oct^^r   in   the 
Ji  Harvard 


r 


scan 


have  ranp:> 


r  ■ 
I  ■ 


be 


S,,"' 


OI 


.1  do 


oi  grc 


IHi     ^-^i^i-  iaSTITUTE 

,  1  I  roni  the  ph) .         f  the  earth  through 

:1^  eiher  to  the  motiuns  of  the  hejvvenly 

J  j^,     .  ih..  hnnnr  of  risking  Professor 

ra  to         'Olid         UHS  iuiidamental  field 

mathematics  has  met  with  some 

I  liie  physical  uiuvcise. 

:  Without  doubt  we 

,  ;  .  soeiit  at  Houston. 

■an  of  such  an  institute 

ve  consequences 

Beginning  in 

.0  large,  di- 

o  have  a  considerable 

Tr  wp.  ■  tiie  case  exactly  to  speak  of  pure  science 

R,     .      .  co^d  base  to  culture,  vou 

are  certain        prepare  the  new  generations  not  only  to     -v 
,  _.,  .  -.rrrcss,  but  also  to  be  ready  to  appiy 

the  resources  ot  science  to  its  most  useful  applications. 

-iences.   Dure  phvsics  in  the  most  general 
wora,  g.vc  cu.  .pport' r-  illustration  of 

:  icient  to  consider  the  aevfi- 

-^r  few  years,  and  the 

:iit>  iiavv  aad  on  liic  general 

iblic  has  found  for  itself.     In 

completely  theoretical 

tical  physics,  and  the  experi- 

^Ide  bv  side,  each  an 

hes,  indeed,  that  at  first  sight 

]o<^r  inspection  to  have 

uiiiir. 

A  astronomy,  or,  more 


sen' 


1  >r'  t 


me' 

?!  *  H 
S€C» 

had  considerai 


» \ » 1 


1 


HARVARD   UNIVERSITY 

accepts  with  pleasure  the  kind  invitation  of  the 
President  and  Trustees  of 
The  Rice  Institute 
in  the 
City  of  Houston,  Texas 
to  be  represented  by  a  delegate  at  the  exercises  attendant  upon 
the  opening  of   the   Institute  to  be  held   on   the  tenth,  eleventh, 
and  twelfth  of  October,  nineteen    hundred  and    twelve,  and  has 
appointed     as    its    delegate    on    that    occasion.    Harr>     Yandell 
Benedict,   Ph.D.,   Professor  of   Applied    Mathematics  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Texas. 

Given  at  Cambridge  on  the  first  day  of  October  in  the 
nineteen  hundred  and  twelfth  year  of  our  Lord  and  of  Harvard 
College  the  two  hundred  and  seventy-seventh. 


i< 


tI 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

precisely,  celestial  mechanics.  It  seems  entirely  theoretical 
and  abstract.  Yet  from  where  came  the  concept  of  poten- 
tial? Laplace  Introduces  It  Into  the  subject  of  celestial  me- 
chanlcs  In  order  to  study  In  a  simple  mathematical  way  the 
laws  of  universal  gravitation.  Now  little  by  little  the  Idea 
of  potential  was  carried  from  the  domain  of  celestial  me- 
chanics to  that  of  static  electricity.  After  that  It  was  Intro- 
duced Into  electrodynamics.  And,  different  only  In  form, 
when  electricity  was  brought  to  the  hands  of  the  whole 
world,  It  was  acquired  by  the  workers  In  electricity  and  the 
people.  In  a  word,  potential  took  its  point  of  departure  In 
Integral  calculus,  but  Is  now  used  by  everybody. 

Mr.  Borel  spoke  to  us.  In  his  fine  lecture,  of  certain  func- 
tions, very  complicated  and  difficult  to  study,  that  appear  in 
analysis.  They  are  to  be  applied  to  modern  physics.  Let  us 
hope  that  they  have  a  future  comparable  with  that  of  the 

potential  function. 

The  greatest  progress  In  physics  has  taken  place  doubtless 
In  the  subjects  of  electricity,  optics,  and  the  theory  of  heat. 
At  first  widely  distinct,  they  have  become  little  by  little 
closely  connected;  and  if  a  scientist  of  a  hundred  years  ago 
should  behold  their  modern  development  he  would  be  quite 
surprised  to  perceive  that  optics  has  become  a  special  branch 
of  electrodynamics,  and  that  electricity  is  merely  one  chapter 
in  a  general  theory  that  includes  as  special  instances  the 
theory  of  gases  and  the  conduction  of  heat  and  electricity. 
And  finally  he  would  notice  that  the  theory  of  energy  doml- 
nates  all  branches  of  natural  philosophy. 

According  to  Descartes,  mechanics  was  the  basis  of  all 
physics.  It  has  undergone  many  changes,  and  in  the  view  of 
many  scientists  will  cease  to  play  that  principal  role  and 
become  a  special  branch  of  energetics.  According  to  others, 
It  will  be  modified  In  its  most  fundamental  laws  and  become 

[69] 


f  \\ 


1^ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

an  entirely  new  organum,  completely  without  the  bounds  of 

classical  mechanics. 

Who  can  tell  what  the  future  prepares  for  us  ?  New  mar- 
vels are  quite  likely  to  follow  those  which  have  lately  star- 
tled us.  Probably  many  of  the  hypotheses  that  now  serve  us 
usefully  must  fall.  They  constitute  merely  the  light  scaf- 
folding by  means  of  which  we  erect  a  great  building. 

Beginning  to-day,  I  see  the  Rice  Institute,  by  means  of  its 
professors  and  students,  drawn  into  the  scientific  progress 
of  the  future.  I  raise  a  glass  and  drink  to  the  future  of  this 
institute,  to  its  glory  and  service  in  the  culture  of  America 
and  the  world. 

President  Lovett:  We  have  reached  the  keystone  of 
our  arch.     In  calling  for  the  formal  toast  to  "Science,"  I 
beg  to  remind  you  that  the  spirit  of  this  university  of  science 
has  been  cut  in  two  tablets  of  stone  on  the  walls  of  its  chief 
building.    On  one  of  them  the  Greek  Aristotle  says,  "If  we 
properly  observe  celestial  phenomena,  we  may  demonstrate 
the  laws  which  regulate  them,"  and  on  the  other  the  Hebrew 
Job  says,  ''Speak  to  the  earth,  and  it  shall  teach  thee."     It 
is  with  peculiar  pleasure  that  we  have  requested  Professor 
Conklin  of  Princeton  University  to  make  this  response;  for, 
as  one  of  the  members  of  our  first  advisory  committee,  we 
greet  him,  not  as  a  stranger,  but  as  one  on  whose  counsel 
we  leaned  even  before  any  of  our  aspirations  had  begun 
to  assume  definite  or  concrete  form.     In  his  double  capacity 
as  professor  of  biology  in  Princeton  University  and  expert 
adviser  to  the  Rice  Institute,  I  have  the  honor  of  Introducing 
to  you  Dr.  Edwin  Grant  Conklin,  who  will  speak  to  the 
toast  "Science." 

Professor  Edwin  Grant  Conklin:  During  this  aca- 
demic festival  we  have  seen  everywhere,  on  banners  and 

[70] 


I  4 

14 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

programs,  on  ice-cream  and  cakes,  the  seal  of  the  Rice 
Institute  with  its  three  owls.  In  poetry  and  classic  lore  the 
owl  is  the  bird  of  Minerva,  the  symbol  of  wisdom,  but  in 
fact  and  natural  history  he  is  the  bird  of  night,  and  it  was 
not  until  this  dinner  had  lasted  long  beyond  the  night's  key- 
stone that  the  real  inner  significance  of  this  seal  dawned 
upon  me— namely,  the  three-owl  power  of  the  Rice  Insti- 
tute, 

But  considering  these  owls  on  the  seal  as  birds  of  wisdom, 
I  ask  you  to  observe  their  positions  and  names:  two  are 
on  the  roof  or  in  the  air,  and  one  is  in  the  coop  or  on  the 
ground.  The  two  in  the  air  are  labeled  "Literature"  and 
"Art,"  the  one  on  the  ground  or  in  the  coop  is  labeled 

"Science." 

I  am  to  speak  for  a  kind  of  learning  which  is  thought  by 
some  persons  to  have  no  wings,  which  "moves  but  slowly, 
slowly,  creeping  on  from  point  to  point";  which  many  con- 
sider as  not  only  groveling,  but  as  narrow  in  outlook  and 
material  in  its  tendencies.  I  wish  to  show  that  the  chief 
debt  of  civilization  to  Science  Is  not  for  material  comforts, 
but  for  Intellectual  freedom  and  enlightenment;  that  while 
Science  plants  her  feet  on  the  solid  ground  of  nature,  she 
moves  with  her  head  among  the  stars. 

The  great  aim  of  Science  is  to  know  and  control  nature, 
not  merely  for  the  purpose  that  man  may  obtain  the  golden 
touch,  not  that  all  things  may  be  made  to  minister  to  his  com- 
fort, but  rather  that  he  may  know  the  truth,  and  that  the 
truth  may  set  him  free. 

The  wonderful  material  changes  wrought  by  science,  such 
as  the  developments  of  steam,  electricity,  and  great  engineer- 
ing enterprises,  and  the  consequent  increase  of  comforts 
and  enlargement  of  human  experience;  the  remarkable 
growth  of  the  applied  sciences  of  chemistry,  physics,  biology, 

[TO 


I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

and  geology;  and,  perhaps  most  of  all,  the  revolutionary 
changes  in  medicine,  surgery,  and  public  health  which  have 
followed  a  scientific  study  of  the  causes  and  remedies  of 
various  diseases,  are  liable  to  blind  us  to  other  great  achieve- 
ments of  science,  which,  if  less  material,  are  none  the  less 
real  and  valuable. 

I.  First  among  all  the  services  of  science  must  always  be 
reckoned  its  liberation  of  man  from  the  bondage  of  super- 
stition. We  can  never  fully  realize  the  terrors  of  a  world 
supposed  to  be  inhabited  by  demons  and  evil  spirits,  a  world 
in  which  all  natural  phenomena  are  but  the  expressions  of 
the  love  or  hatred  of  preternatural  beings.  But  we  may 
gather  from  history  and  from  present-day  ignorance  and 
superstition  some  faint  idea  at  least  of  the  ever  present 
dread,  even  amidst  happiness  and  joy,  of  those  who  feared 
Nature  because  they  knew  her  not,  of  those  to  whom  the 
heavens  were  full  of  omens  and  the  earth  of  portents,  of 
those  who  peopled  every  shadow  with  ghosts  and  evil 
spirits,  and  who  saw  in  all  sickness,  pain,  adversity,  and 
calamity  the  cruel  hand  of  a  demon  or  the  evil  eye  of  a 

witch. 

It  is  frequently  assumed  that  the  decline  of  superstition 
is  due  to  the  teachings  of  religion  or  to  the  general  develop- 
ment of  the  intellectual  powers  of  man,  and  there  is  no  doubt 
that  to  a  certain  extent  this  is  true.  The  general  advance 
of  the  intellect,  in  so  far  as  it  is  associated  with  truer  views 
of  Nature,  is  unquestionably  inimical  to  superstition;  yet  the 
persistence  of  such  a  superstition  as  that  concerning  witch- 
craft through  periods  of  great  religious  and  intellectual 
awakening,  the  almost  universal  belief  in  it  throughout  the 
golden  age  of  English  literature,  the  statutes  of  all  Euro- 
pean countries  against  the  practice  of  witchcraft,  sorcery, 
and  magic,  some  of  which  remained  until  the  beginning  of 


A 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

the  nineteenth  century— all  these  things  show  that  however 
religion  and  general  intelligence  may  have  curbed  its  cruel 
and  murderous  practices,  its  downfall  could  be  brought  about 
only  by  a  more  thorough  knowledge  of  Nature.  The  com- 
mon belief  that  insanity,  epilepsy,  and  imbecility  were  the 
results  of  demoniacal  possession  necessarily  led,  even  in  en- 
lightened and  Christian  communities,  to  cruel  methods  of 
exorcising  the  demon,  and  the  final  disappearance  of  this 
superstition  (if  it  may  be  said  to  have  disappeared  even  at 
the  present  day)  is  entirely  due  to  a  scientific  study  of  the 
diseases  in  question. 

The  same  might  be  said  of  any  one  of  a  hundred  forms 
of  superstition  which,  like  a  legion  of  demons,  hedged  about 
the  lives  of  our  ancestors.  As  false  interpretations  of  nat- 
ural phenomena,  only  truer  interpretation  could  displace 
them;  and  what  centuries  of  the  best  literature,  philosophy, 
and  religion  had  failed  to  do,  science  has  accomplished. 
Science  is,  as  the  elder  Huxley  has  said,  organized  and 
trained  common  sense;  and  nowhere  is  this  better  shown 
than  in  its  rational,  common-sense  way  of  interpreting  mys- 
terious phenomena.  No  doubt  much  still  remains  to  be 
accomplished;  the  unscientific  world  is  still  full  of  supersti- 
tion as  to  natural  phenomena,  but  it  is  superstition  of  a  less 
malignant  type  than  prevailed  before  the  general  introduc- 
tion of  the  scientific  method. 

Furthermore,  the  cultivation  of  the  natural  sciences  has 
done  more  than  all  other  agencies  to  liberate  man  from 
slavish  regard  for  authority.  When  all  others  were  appeal- 
ing to  antiquity,  the  Church,  the  Scriptures,  Science  appealed 
to  facts.  She  has  braved  the  anathemas  of  popes  and  church 
councils,  of  philosophers  and  scholars,  in  her  search  for 
truth:  she  has  freed  from  ecclesiastical,  patristic,  even  aca- 
demic bondage;  she  has  unfettered  the  mind,   enthroned 

1:73] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

reason,  taught  the  duty  and  responsibility  of  independent 
thought,  and  her  message  to  mankind  has  ever  been  the 
message  of  intellectual  enlightenment  and  liberty:  "Ye  shall 
know  the  truth,  and  the  truth  shall  make  you  free." 

2.  But  Science  has  not  only  broken  the  chains  of  super- 
stition and  proclaimed  intellectual  emancipation:  she  has 
enormously  enlarged  the  field  of  thought.     She  has  given 
men  nobler  and  grander  conceptions  of  nature  than  were 
ever  dreamed  of  before.     Contrast  the  old  geocentric  the- 
ory, which  made  the  earth  the  center  of  all  created  thmgs, 
with  the  revelations  of  modern  astronomy  as  to  the  enor- 
mous sizes,  distances,  and  velocities  of  the  heavenly  bodies; 
contrast  the  old  view  that  the  earth  was  made  about  six 
thousand  years  ago-5670  years  last  September,  to  be  exact 
-in  six  literal  days,  with  the  revelations  of  geology  that  the 
earth  is  immeasurably  old,  and  that  not  days  but  millions  of 
years  have  been  consumed  in  its  making;  contrast  the  doc- 
trine of  creation  which  taught  that  the  world,  and  all  that 
therein  is,  recently  and  miraculously  were  launched  into  exist- 
ence, with  the  revelations  of  science  that  animals  and  plants 
and  the  world  itself  are  the  result  of  an  Immensely  long  pro- 
cess of  evolution.    As  Darwin  so  beautifully  says,  "There  is 
grandeur  in  this  view  of  Hfe  with  its  several  powers  having 
been  breathed  by  the  Creator  Into  a  few  forms  or  into  one, 
and  that  whilst  this  planet  has  gone  cycling  on  according  to 
the  first  law  of  gravity,  from  so  simple  a  beginning  endless 
forms  most  beautiful  and  most  wonderful  have  been  and  are 
being  evolved."     There  is  grandeur  in  the  revelations  of 
science  concerning  the  whole  of  nature,-grandeur  not  only 
in  the  conceptions  of  Immensity  which  it  discloses,  but  also 
of  the  stability  of  nature.    To  the  man  of  science  nature  does 
not  represent  the  mere  caprice  of  God  or  devil,  to  be  lightly 
altered  for  a  child's  whim.    Nature  is,  as  Bishop  Butler  says, 

n743 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

that  which  is  stated,  fixed,  settled,  eternal  process  moving 
on,  the  same  yesterday,  to-day,  and  forever.  Men  may 
come  and  men  may  go,  doctrines  may  rise  and  disappear, 
states  may  flourish  and  decay,  but  in  nature,  as  in  God  him- 
self, there  is  neither  variableness  nor  shadow  of  turning. 
The  all  too  prevalent  notion  that  nature  may  be  wheedled, 
cheated,  juggled  with,  shows  that  men  have  not  yet  begun 
to  realize  the  stability  of  nature,  and  indicates  the  necessity 
of  at  least  some  elementary  scientific  training  for  all  men. 
"To  the  solid  ground  of  Nature  trusts  the  mind  that  builds 

for  aye." 

3.  Science  has  changed  our  whole  point  of  view  as  to 
nature  and  man,  and  science  cannot  therefore  be  eliminated 
from  any  system  of  education  which  strives  to  impart  cul- 
ture. It  is  not  principally  nor  primarily  in  its  results,  how- 
ever great  they  may  be,  that  the  chief  service  of  science  is 
found,  but  rather  in  its  method.  In  a  word,  the  method  of 
science  is  the  appeal  to  phenomena,  the  appeal  to  nature. 
To  the  scientist  the  test  of  truth  is  not  logic,  nor  inner  con- 
viction, nor  conceivablllty  and  inconceivability,  but  phenom- 
ena, or  what  are  commonly  called  facts.  The  steps  of  this 
appeal  to  phenomena  are  first  observation  or  experiment; 
then  induction,  hypothesis,  or  generalization;  and  finally 
verification  by  further  observations,  experiments,  and  com- 
parisons. The  methods  of  science  have  now  invaded  to  a 
greater  or  less  extent  all  domains  of  thought,— philosophy, 
literature,  art,  education,  and  religion,  — and  the  unique 
character  of  the  method  of  science  may  not  be  fully  appre- 
ciated except  upon  comparison  with  pre-sclentific  or  non- 
scientific  methods. 

Of  course  one  need  not  expect  to  find  any  proper  appre- 
ciation of  the  scientific  method  among  the  ignorant,  but  it  is 
amazing  how  ^such  appreciation   is  lacking  among  many 

[75] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

otherwise  intelligent  and  cultivated  people.  We  daily  see 
innumerable  cases  where  the  test  of  truth  is  the  appeal  to 
superstition,  to  sentiment,  to  prejudice,  to  inner  conviction — 
in  short,  to  anything  rather  than  facts. 

Consider  for  a  moment  the  art  of  healing,  as  contrasted 
with  the  science  of  medicine;  the  various  "schools  of  medi- 
cine,'' and  much  more  those  who  never  went  to  school,  ap- 
peal not  to  carefully  determined,  accurately  controllable 
phenomena,  but  largely  to  sentiment,  prejudice,  and  super- 
stition. The  same  is  true  of  the  "fake"  science  which  flour- 
ishes mightily  in  the  daily  papers,  and  especially  is  it  shown 
in  the  hypotheses,  discoveries,  and  dogmas  of  those  who 
determine  the  laws  of  nature  from  introspection  and  con- 
struct the  universe  from  their  inner  consciousness. 

Every  little  while  there  arises  a  new  and  brilliant  Lucifer 
who  draws  after  him  a  third  part  of  the  hosts  of  heaven. 
Though  he  appears  under  many  guises,  such  as  divine  healer, 
Christian  Scientist  (Heaven  save  the  mark!),  spiritualist, 
theosophist,  telepathist,  the  main  tenet  of  his  belief  is  always 
the  same— a  revolt  against  the  scientific  method  of  appealing 
to  phenomena. 

What  is  the  remedy  for  such  a  state  of  affairs?  A  little 
first-hand  knowledge  of  scientific  methods.  The  appeal  to 
facts  is  the  very  foundation  of  science,  and  it  is  a  method  in 
which  every  person,  and  particularly  every  student,  should 
receive  thorough  and  systematic  training. 

To  me  it  seems  that  there  is  no  part  of  an  education  so 
important  as  this,  none  the  lack  of  which  will  so  seriously 
mar  the  whole  life.  Of  course  it  is  not  claimed  that  all 
scientists  best  illustrate  the  scientific  method,  nor  that  it  may 
not  be  practised  by  those  who  have  not  studied  science,  but 
that  this  method  is  best  inculcated  in  the  study  of  the  natural 
sciences.    Science  not  only  appeals  to  facts,  but  it  cultivates 


\ 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

a  love  of  truth,  not  merely  of  the  sentimental  sort,  but  such 
as  leads  men  to  long-continued  and  laborious  research;  it 
trains  the  critical  judgment  as  to  evidence;  it  gives  man 
truer  views  of  himself  and  of  the  world  in  which  he  lives, 
and  it  therefore  furnishes,  as  I  believe,  the  best  possible 
foundation,  not  only  for  scholarship  in  any  field,  but  for 
citizenship  and  general  culture. 

But  culture  is  not  some  definite  goal  to  be  reached  by  a 
single  kind  of  discipline.  There  is  no  single  path  to  culture, 
and  the  great  danger  which  confronts  the  student  of  the 
natural  sciences  is  that  his  absorption  in  his  work  may  lead 
to  a  narrowness  which  blinds  him  to  the  broad  significance  of 
the  facts  with  which  he  deals  and  unfits  him  for  association 
with  his  fellow-men.  A  technical  education  which  deals  only 
with  training  for  special  w^ork,  without  reference  to  founda- 
tion principles,  may  be  useful  and  necessary,  but  It  cannot  be 
said  to  contribute  largely  to  culture.  What  teacher  has  not 
been  surprised  and  pained  by  the  fear  which  some  students 
exhibit  that  they  may  waste  an  hour  on  some  subject  the 
direct  financial  value  of  which  they  do  not  see,— students 
who  fail  to  grasp  general  principles,  to  take  a  broad  and  gen- 
erous view  of  life,  to  appreciate  good  work  wherever  done? 
The  scientist  no  less  than  the  classicist  or  the  humanist 
should  know  the  world's  best  thought  and  life.  Life  is  not 
only  knowing  but  feeling  and  doing  also,  and  other  things 
than  science  are  necessary  to  culture.  The  day  is  forever 
past  when  any  one  mind  can  master  all  sciences,  much  less 
all  knowledge;  there  can  never  be  another  Aristotle  or  Hum- 
boldt; nevertheless,  In  the  demand  for  broad  and  liberal 
training  the  greatest  needs  of  scientific  work  and  the  highest 
Ideals  of  culture  are  at  one,  and  this  Institute  can  serve  no 
more  useful  purpose  than  to  stand  for  the  highest,  broadest, 
and  most  generous  views  of  science,  of  education,  and  of  life. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

President  Lovett:  If  the  manifold  ramifications  of  the 
modern  spirit  of  research  and  scientific  inquiry  have  resulted 
in  a  corresponding  multipHcation  of  the  sciences,  that  same 
method  is  constantly  striving  through  their  mutual  relations 
to  restore  to  science  its  unity.  Physics  and  biology,  the  fun- 
damental sciences  of  the  inorganic  and  the  organic  world, 
respectively,  find  a  meeting-ground  in  chemistry.  Chemistry 
stands  out  in  the  history  of  science  with  as  romantic  a  back- 
ground as  is  that  possessed  by  astronomy.  The  one  began 
in  astrology  and  the  desire  of  man  to  read  his  fate  in  the 
stars;  the  other  began  in  an  alchemy  which  reflected  a  corre- 
sponding desire  to  find  the  fortune  of  gold  in  all  the  baser 
elements  of  earth.  Professor  Sir  William  Ramsay,  in  his 
inaugural  lecture  this  morning,  showed  us  how  he  has  been 
bringing  all  that  romance  within  reach  of  realization.  He 
has  consented  to  respond  still  further  for  Chemistry  this 
evening. 

Professor  Sir  Willi/ m  Ramsay:  I  did  not  know  any- 
thing was  expected  of  me  to-night,  and  I  will  not  disappoint 
you  if  at  this  very  late  hour  of  the  night  I  suggest  that  speech 
should  be  extremely  brief. 

The  subject  of  chemistry  is  a  very  large  one,  and  if  I  were 
to  try  to  explain  it  to  you,  I  think  I  should  have  to  treat  you 
to  an  account  of  what  has  been  accomplished  by  all  chemical 
students.  If  you  are  prepared  to  listen,  I  shall  be  delighted 
to  go  on;  and,  if  you  like,  I  can  begin  with  the  beginning  of 
chemistry  and  lead  you  straight  through  the  old  and  modern 
history  of  chemistry. 

Chemistry  plays  a  considerable  part  in  the  welfare  of 
mankind,  and,  as  the  last  speaker  has  said,  the  scientific  man 
regards  it  from  the  point  of  view  of  curiosity  to  know  how 
the  little  wheels  go  round.    I  have  always  had  such  curiosity; 

[78] 


1». 


TIIK  rOLlSH  I  NIVKIJSITY 


IN 

LW('.W  -LEMBERG'.  GALICIA.  Al>Ti;iA, 

\VI-HK>  TO  CONVKV  TO  THE 

RICE  INSTITUTE 

IX 

HOUSTON.  TEXAS, 

ox  THE  DAY  OF  ITS  IXAUGURATION  ITS  GP.KETINGS  AND  HEARTIEST  WISHES 

FOK  A  FAVoUIlAIJLE  UEVELOPEMKM. 

WE  HA\'E  WITH  PLEASURE  RECEIVED  YOLK  CO.MMLNICATION  WITH  THE  NEWS  OF  TilE 

FOINDING  OF  A  NEW  SI'LEMUD  TEMPLE  DEDICATED  TO 

KNOWLEGDE  AND  EDUCATION  ON  AMERICAN  SOIL,  WHERE  SO  MANY  POLES  ARE  LIVING 

FOUNDED  BY  THE  LIBERALITY  OF  YOUR  NOBLE  COUNTRYMAN 

WILLIxVM  MARSH  RICE 

ERECTED  AND  ORGANISED  WITH  FORESIGHT  AND  CARE  BY  YOUR  GREAT  CITIZENS  AND  SrHoLARS. 

IT  WILL    BECOME  A  FRUITFUL   FOUNT  OF    EDUCATIONAL   WORK  THROUGH  WHICH 

YOU  FILL  OLD  EUROPE  WITH   AMAZEMENT. 

BLESSED  IS  THAT  LAND  WHICH  PO.-SE>SES  SUCH  SONS. 

HAPPY  IS  THE  COUNTRY  IN  WHICH,  THANKS  TO  THE  LIBERALITY  OF  ITS  CITIZENS. 

PALACES  ARE  ERECTED 

FOR  CLLTIVATING  AND  EXTENDING  HUMAN  KNOWLEGDE. 

UNITED  TO  YOU  BY  THE  BONDS 

OF  COMMON  ASPIRATIONS  WE  SEND  ACItOsS  THE  SEA 

TO  THE  HANDS  OF  YOUR 

MOST  HONOURABLE  PRESIDENT 

EDGxVR  ODELL  LOVETT 

THE  OLD  POLISH  WISH  OF 

.SZCZD^C  B02E" 

(GOOD  LUCK) 

FOR  YOUTl  WORK  IN  FURTHERING 

THE  GREATEST  GOOD 

OP 

iLAN'KIND. 

a  T    RECTOR 
or  THE  nWIVERSITT  OF  LWOW 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

but  T  think  1  mn\  «;peak  for  every  true  man    ..  ^uui  ho 

takes  the  trouble  to  investigate  nature,  if  I  sav  that  women 
ought  to  be  the  best  chemist* :  for  Eve  was  the  v-^  nn.^  ir!nv:r 
curiou  God's  crcaiuicb. 

It  is  said  to  be  owing  to  her  action  that  the  staro  «m  affairs 
whirh  ivo  ^;-r  -ground  ^c  p^^-'  \^ic  produced;  aku  ;^):.^.ui>,  m 
tilt  uay-  oi  the  tutare  -tiie  time  when  men  have  been  ex- 
cl\ided  from  the  vote,  and  when  the  country  i 
iiiea  ific  courage  v»iiich  is  mherent  in  success  vviii  agam 
appear-  I  remember  a  saying  which  struck  me  at  the  time  as 
V-  ^n  •  -^y  no  means  discourteous  to  women;  it  is,  that 

womei'  c  more  interest  iw  persons,  while  men  are  more 
mfprrv:*^f'd  In  things. 

i  am  sure  that  you  will  find  that  there  are  few  women  who 

themselv^es  to  anv  sourcf*  riT  hrrinch  nf  l*r.nwledo"e 

cAvi.'^n  loi  rhe  love  or  some  nvda  wlioii]  iiiey  eiecc  to  follow. 

\-  tor  us  men,  we  shall  continue  theTesearches  wi^h  as  much 

vigo.      >  we  have  uj.-  -    •  —   bc;..ui\<.vi  upon  rhem.     We  are 

ally  approaching  a  goal  which  can  never  be  reached; 

.•^  ir  v<  ns  wpII  tU-if  '*■  !c  i^n -l^^-'. innKi:    ^r^^  j     _  ./     \ ..  selfish 

in  us  to  wish  to  nnu  nut  everythiiig  and  leave  nothing  for  our 
ors.  That  is  rr'ivKsihie:  the  worKj  or  knnwlfd?'*^'  '=^ 
iiiiijiiiable.  and  no  vv\>ruh  are  av  aiiar-i  ■  xpress  its  mlmite 
Newton,  the  great  natural  philosonher.  ^aid  once 
th  If  u  f -  ^'ij-e  all  like  children  on  the  sea-ii.uic,  ^.ncivijig  up  iiere 
and  there  a  pebble,  while  the  vast  ocean  of  knowledge  is 
sp?*ead  at  our  feet.  We  are  lucky  if  we  find  pebble- •  ^' 
of  us  who  try  pick  up  small  and  not  very  valuable  stones  tor 
the  most  Dart. 

The  wuik  oi  the  man  of  science  is  in  some  degree  creativ 
and  I  say  that  this  spirit  of  creation  is  not  confined  t(^  the 
cr;^nf:f:.   y^^an,  but  is  common  to  the  aiu^t    to  the  ma:      • 
letters,  and  even  to  the  philosopher.     It  is  the  spirit  which 


Till:  roLlsil  I  NIVKHSITV 


\\\(K  INSTITrTE 


noi  sTON,  TKXAs. 

ON  THE  1>AY  OF  n>   i^  'i-  .;ni:FTIN.-    \N1'   I-  -!    \MMIF- 

Yi)\.  I>KVEL'>PKMt;.Vi- 

WK  HAVE  WITH   TLEASrHE  liFX  ElVKl>  VOl  K  CoMMrNirVTION   Wild   TMK  Ni  W>  '•: 

FOlNDI.Vti  OF  A   NEW  SI'LEN1>H>  TEMPLE  1)E1»ICA'1KI»  To 

KNoWLFouh  AND  EPrCATK'N  on   aMEIMCAN  S(ML    WHERE  M)  MANY   Vn[.V.-  .W.V.  I.!\  IM. 

FOINOFD  BY  THE  LUiFi:  \E1TY  oF  YOFll  NoBI.E  COINTHYMAN 

WILLIAM  MAP.SII  RICE 

ERECTED  AND  ORGANISED  WITH  FORESIGHT  AND  CAKE  BV  YOLK  GREAT  CITIZEN-  AND  M UmI.MS 

IT  WILL   BECOME  A  FRUITFEL   FOlNT  OF    EDlCATloNAL   WORK  THROIGH  WHICH 

YOU  FILL  OLD  EUROFE  WITH   AMAZEMENT 

BLESSED  IS  THAT  LAND  WHKU   l'(i->F.-.>ES  SUCH  ^oN^ 

HAPPY  IS  THE  COUNTRY  IN  WHICH,  THANK>  TO  TIIF  I.IBEHALITY  OF   ITS  CITIZEN^ 

palace;s  are  erected 
for  clltivatinu  and  extending  human  knowlegde. 

UNITED  TO  Vol     HV  THE  BOND> 

(iF  COMMON  ASPIRATIONS  WE  SE:ND  ACI;o->  THE  -EA 

TO  THE  HANDS  OF  YOUR 

MOST  HONOURABLE  PRE>IDENT 

EDCiAR  ODELL  LOVETT 

THE  OLD  POLI.-H    Wl-H  oF 

■GOOD  LICK* 

FOi;  YOUR  WORK  IN  FURTHERING 

THE  GREATEST  GO(»D 

OF 

^.  MANKIND 

H.  T    RECTOR 
OF  THE  CyrVER=ITy  OF  I.WAW 


^^«^ 


X 


Tin:  POLISH  IMVKliSlTV 


ws  HA^TE  wnra  fiS- 


f  ««WLWf?> 


9MWMM'  - 


lUl'f"'    '•>  THS  Ct)l.Mi- 


LWtVW  'LE>' 

ill  A 

Wl<HF> 

., 

lilt: 

RICE  IN^ '? 

T] 

"TV 

HOUSTHiN.   ■ 

\Ti()S  r.~    • 

.' 

ARTIt> 

T  WISHES 

V    >rUAt5! 

r»  yotR  ot 

.HK 

NEWS  OF  TUF 

>i>il>  i 

i 

t.l)  T(; 

^    S*>IL 

.  V,  J 

, ' 

.     'J       1 .     -f 

r:S  ARK  LIV1N(,- 

t-  \- 

M    r- 

ICE 

\' 

YOtk  GREjvT  CITii:»^:5S  and  *r'H'»LAR>i 

X  t* 

1H0LGU  WHICH 

.  .  I. 

•■^. 

:■    ^laf 

.>F 

ITS  CmZENS. 

f> 


?(V,. 


•xn  A>  ^    MAN  jKNOWLE(JDE 

.     .  KD  ^)  YOL  BY  THE  BONDS 
Of  CJOMSlttK  A&PIKATI0N8  ME  HE-M>  ACROSS  THE  SEA 
TD  THE  HANDS  OF  VOIR 
T  HONOfRABLfc  PRESIDENT 

EDGAR  ODELL  LOVETT 


««X)D  LICK) 
I  WORK  LN  FURTffJSKINO 
lUM  QKMAWm  aocH> 

m 

HiJCCIKD. 


>^-'-:,.^v 


or  m  iwnitRsiTT  or  i.r<Sw 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

but  I  think  I  may  speak  for  every  true  man  of  science  who 
takes  the  trouble  to  investigate  nature,  if  I  say  that  women 
ought  to  be  the  best  chemists;  for  Eve  was  the  first  and  most 
curious  of  God's  creatures. 

It  is  said  to  be  owing  to  her  action  that  the  state  of  affairs 
which  we  see  around  us  now  was  produced;  and  possibly,  in 
the  days  of  the  future— the  time  when  men  have  been  ex- 
cluded from  the  vote,  and  when  the  country  is  ruled  by  wo- 
men—the courage  which  is  inherent  in  success  will  again 
appear.  I  remember  a  saying  which  struck  me  at  the  time  as 
very  true,  and  by  no  means  discourteous  to  women;  it  is,  that 
women  take  more  interest  in  persons,  while  men  are  more 
interested  in  things. 

I  am  sure  that  you  will  find  that  there  are  few  women  who 
devote  themselves  to  any  source  or  branch  of  knowledge, 
except  for  the  love  of  some  man  whom  they  elect  to  follow. 
As  for  us  men,  we  shall  continue  the  researches  with  as  much 
vigor  as  we  have  up  to  now  bestowed  upon  them.  We  are 
continually  approaching  a  goal  which  can  never  be  reached; 
and  it  is  as  well  that  it  is  unattainable,  for  it  would  be  selfish 
in  us  to  wish  to  find  out  everything  and  leave  nothing  for  our 
successors.  That  is  impossible;  the  world  of  knowledge  is 
illimitable,  and  no  words  are  available  to  express  its  infinite 
extent.  Newton,  the  great  natural  philosopher,  said  once 
that  we  are  all  like  children  on  the  sea-shore,  picking  up  here 
and  there  a  pebble,  while  the  vast  ocean  of  knowledge  is 
spread  at  our  feet.  We  are  lucky  if  we  find  pebbles;  those 
of  us  who  try  pick  up  small  and  not  very  valuable  stones  for 
the  most  part. 

The  work  of  the  man  of  science  is  in  some  degree  creative ; 
and  I  say  that  this  spirit  of  creation  is  not  confined  to  the 
scientific  man,  but  is  common  to  the  artist,  to  the  man  of 
letters,  and  even  to  the  philosopher.     It  is  the  spirit  which 

D93 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

impels  us  forward  on  the  road  which  we  must  travel,  and 
the  great  pleasure  of  those  of  us  who  feel  in  that  way  must 
be  to  induce  others  to  travel  along  the  same  road.  There  is 
no  greater  pleasure  than  to  see  one's  disciples  succeed,  no 
greater  pleasure  than  to  feel  that  they  are  pushing  along  the 
road  which  leads  to  victory,  and  doing  something  for  the 
ultimate  happiness  and  benefit  of  the  human  race. 


President  Lovett:  When  the  history  of  the  nineteenth 
century  comes  to  be  written,  it  is  doubtful  whether  that  cen- 
tury will  stand  out  more  prominently  as  a  century  of  science 
or  a  century  of  history.  From  some  points  of  view,  the  his- 
tory of  historians  in  the  nineteenth  century  is  almost  as  fer- 
tile in  ideas  as  is  the  history  of  scientists  in  that  same  period. 
If  history  has  been  assuming  more  and  more  the  character- 
istics of  a  science,  it  should  nevertheless  be  losing  none  of 
its  character  as  an  art.  If  history  has  become  a  subject  of 
scientific  research,  not  in  laboratories  but  in  archives  and 
excavations,  it  still  must  be  more  than  chronology,  more  than 
critical  survey  and  systematization  of  sources;  for  to  be 
great,  as  the  father  of  history  made  it  great,  it  still  must  be 
great  as  literature.  Those  of  you  who  listened  to  the  elo- 
quent lecture  of  Professor  Altamira  this  morning  will  wel- 
come him  again  heartily  to-night  as  an  able  exponent  of  this 
double  aspect  of  history. 

Professor  Rafael  Altamira  :  I  should  like  nothing  bet- 
ter than  to  undertake  an  apology  for  historical  studies  in  the 
same  fashion  as  I  have  seen  my  colleagues  to-night  present 
apologies  for  other  scientific  fields,  but  I  find  that  the  night  is 
too  far  spent  to  engage  myself  in  the  arguments  and  explica- 
tions which  in  the  face  of  the  vulgar  skepticism  concerning 
the  subject  of  history  refuse  to  be  summarized  either  readily 

[So;] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

or  succinctly.  I  prefer,  therefore,  to  limit  the  representation 
of  my  studies  on  this  occasion  to  recalling  an  historic  event 
which  most  naturally  jumps  to  mind  at  this  time.  Ladies  and 
gentlemen,  it  is  just  past  midnight.  The  eleventh  of  October 
gone,  we  have  arrived  at  the  unforgetable  date  of  the  twelfth 
of  October ;  that  is  to  say,  we  have  come  to  the  day  on  which, 
four  hundred  and  twenty  years  ago,  Christopher  Columbus 
with  his  Spanish  boats  and  sailors  arrived  at  the  first  of  the 
American  countries  to  become  adequately  known  to  Euro- 
peans. This  event,  which  had  quite  another  object  than  that 
of  discovering  a  new  world,  was  nevertheless  the  cause  of  a 
great  change,  by  which  the  old  continent  of  Europe,  dis- 
tressed by  profound  crises  of  conscience,  yet  illuminated  by 
the  light  of  the  Renaissance  of  learning  and  scientific  discov- 
ery, renewed  history  by  passing  from  the  regime  of  simple 
commerce  with  people  anthropologically  different  from 
themselves  to  that  of  the  emigration  and  the  founding  of 
new  nationalities  from  the  same  stock. 

Permit  me  to  recall  that  to  Spain  belongs  the  glory  of 
having  promoted  this  new  era  in  human  life,  and  of  having 
sent  forth  the  first  elements  of  population  and  European 
civilization  to  America.    Any  consideration  of  the  processes 
which  have  been  necessary  to  change  the  America  of  the 
fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries  into  the  America  of  the 
twentieth  century,  so  full  of  lessons  for  human  psychology 
and  human  education,  is  of  itself  sufficient  to  justify  the  im- 
portance of  historical  studies.    Nowhere  in  the  whole  sphere 
of  human  knowledge  could  a  man  find  a  subject  more  worthy 
of  study  and  reflection.    But  this  is  not  the  moment  to  enter 
upon  such  a  study.     I  can  do  no  more  than  recall  to  your 
thought  Christopher  Columbus  and  his  companions,  and  ask 
you  to  think  of  them  with  thoughts  full  of  appreciation  and 
admiration.     This  Spain  of  which  they  were  a  part,  and 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

which  is  forever  linked  by  them  to  America,  says  to  you 
through  my  voice  at  this  solemn  hour  for  Houston : 

'Tiva  el  Institiito  Ricer  ("A  long  life  to  the  Rice 
Institute!") 

A  more  sincere  toast,  or  one  fuller  of  meaning,  I  know 
not  how  to  utter. 

President  Lovett:  Comparable  with  the  wealth  that 
followed  in  the  wake  of  the  memorable  expedition  of  the 
illustrious  Christopher  Columbus  in  the  Santa  Maria,  the 
Nifia,  and  the  Pinta,  to  which  Professor  Altamira  has  so 
pertinently  alluded,  is  the  wealth  to  human  thought  that 
Charles  Darwin  brought  back  from  a  similar  voyage  of 
discovery  made  in  the  Beagle  some  three  hundred  years 
later.  I  should  hesitate  to  place  letters,  philosophy,  history, 
and  art  in  anything  approximating  a  logical  sequence;  but  in 
arranging  the  order  of  responses  I  had  no  hesitation  in  plac- 
ing mathematics,  physics,  chemistry,  and  biology  in  the  order 
in  which  their  representatives  appear  here  to-night,  for 
mathematics  is  indispensable  to  the  physicist,  mathematics 
and  physics  to  the  chemist,  and  mathematics,  physics,  and 
chemistry  to  the  biologist.  Thus  we  have  in  biology  a  crown 
of  the  sciences.  To  make  this  crowning  response  for  science 
I  have  great  pleasure  in  calling  upon  Professor  Hugo  de 
Vries  of  the  University  of  Amsterdam,  whom  others,  much 
more  competent  to  speak  than  I,  have  characterized  as  the 
lineal  successor  of  the  illustrious  Charles  Darwin. 

Professor  Hugo  de  Vries  :  It  is  with  great  satisfaction 
that  we  have  seen  the  foundation  of  this  new  Institute.  No 
country  has  such  a  large  number  of  universities  on  so  small 
a  tract  of  land  as  has  my  native  country— Holland.  Nowhere 
are  the  relations  between  science  and  practice  so  intimate 
as  with  us,  and  nowhere  is  the  influence  of  research  work 

1:823 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

and  teaching  on  the  education  of  the  people  and  on  the  in- 
crease of  wealth  and  prosperity  more  evident  than  with  us. 
Therefore  I  cordially  sympathize  with  your  work,  and  think 
that  the  best  thing  William  Marsh  Rice  could  have  done  for 
his  beloved  Texas  was  the  foundation  of  a  center  of  educa- 
tion and  learning,  which  should  gradually  become  a  con- 
stantly increasing  source  of  evolution  on  the  highest  lines. 
The  Southern  States  want  to  show  to  all  civilized  nations 
that  they  are  evolving  on  the  same  broad  lines,  and  have 
the  means  and  the  will  of  rivaling  them  in  all  those  things 
on  which  the  progress  of  civilization  depends.  William 
Marsh  Rice  has  incorporated  this  idea  in  the  form  of  an 
institution  of  learning,  and  the  trustees  of  his  foundation 
have  developed  it  to  the  high  standing  of  a  young  university. 

I  esteem  it  a  favor  to  express  my  sincere  thanks  to  the 
trustees  and  the  president  for  the  kind  hospitality  I  have 
enjoyed  as  their  guest.  I  am  very  glad  to  be  present  here 
and  to  have  the  distinguished  honor  of  participating  in  the 
dedication  of  the  Rice  Institute. 

In  the  play  of  "Hamlet,"  Shakspere  says:  "There  are 
more  things  in  heaven  and  earth  than  are  dreamt  of  in 
our  philosophy."  It  is  the  task  of  science  mainly  to  find  out 
all  these  things  in  heaven  and  on  earth  which  are  still  un- 
known to  us,  and  there  are  so  many  of  them  that  we  want 
collaborators  all  over  the  earth.  We  want  from  you  col- 
laboration; and  from  the  things  I  have  seen  to-day  in  the 
beginning  of  this  young  Institute,  I  may  predict  a  proud 
future  in  scientific  research  as  well  as  in  educational  work. 

Such  a  proud  future  I  may  predict,  and  heartily  wish  it 
to  the  president  and  Board  of  Trustees  of  this  great  Insti- 
tute, which  has  been  made  possible  by  the  money  of  William 
Marsh  Rice  and  the  brain  of  Edgar  Odell  Lovett. 

I  drink  to  the  prosperity  of  the  Rice  Institute. 

1:83:] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Professor  Sir  William  Ramsay  :  I  don't  know  whether 
the  ceremony  is  ended  or  not,  but  there  is  one  thing  we  ought 
all  do  to-night,  and  that  is  drink  to  the  health  of  your  presi- 
dent, Edgar  Odell  Lovett. 

At  this  late  hour  it  is  obviously  not  expedient  to  make  a 
long  oration  in  which  his  many  virtues  should  be  chronicled; 
but  you  will  all  agree  with  me  that  it  is  our  duty,  as  well  as 
our  great  pleasure,  to  thank  him,  before  we  part,  for  all  his 
kindness  to  us;  to  congratulate  him  on  the  magnificent  suc- 
cess of  these  celebrations,  for  which  he  has  so  arduously  pre- 
pared; and  to  wish  him  and  Mrs.  Lovett  many  long  and 
happy  years  in  which  to  enjoy  their  life  at  this  Institute,  the 
inauguration  of  which  has  been  so  happily  completed. 

President  Lovett:  I  should  indeed  be  short  in  human 
feeling  were  I  not  deeply  touched  by  your  generous  response 
to  Professor  Sir  William  Ramsay's  gracious  suggestion. 
But,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  it  is  the  man  I  am  now  about 
to  introduce  to  you  that  you  should  have  toasted  and 
cheered,  for  it  is  to  the  genius  of  his  constructive  imagination 
that  we  owe  all  the  beauty  of  this  place.  The  appeal  of 
these  beautiful  buildings  is  his  appeal— an  appeal  that  places 
beauty  of  art  alongside  of  beauty  of  truth  and  beauty  of 
holiness.  In  the  walls  of  the  first  of  these  monuments  which 
he  conjured  from  the  civilizations  of  southern  climes  we 
have  caused  to  be  carved:  "The  chief  function  of  art  is  to 
make  gentle  the  life  of  the  world,"  and  "The  thing  that  one 
says  well  goes  forth  with  a  voice  unto  everlasting."  The 
things  that  Mr.  Cram  has  wrought  so  well  we  have  builded 
in  brick  and  bronze  and  marble,  in  the  hope  that  they  may 
endure  unto  days  everlasting.  I  have  the  honor  of  introduc- 
ing to  you  the  architect  of  the  Rice  Institute,  who  will  re- 
spond for  "Art." 


'^d 
~ 

4 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Dr.  Ralph  Adams  Cram:  After  what  fashion  shall  I, 
follower  of  art  in  a  sense,  speak  on  this  debatable  subject, 
here  at  the  inauguration  of  a  great  Institution  of  culture  and 
learning,  and  before  you,  its  earliest  and  forever  most  hon- 
ored guests,  who,  personally  and  officially  representing 
Church,  State  and  School,  here  and  now  pay  tribute  to  that 
great  power  whose  duty  it  is  to  lead  onward  and  forward 
every  child  born  of  man,  until,  man  at  last,  he  is  worthy  to 
play  his  part  in  the  life  that  opens  before  him  of  service  and 
charity  and  righteousness  and  worship? 

I  might  speak  of  art  historically,  as  the  perfect  flowering 
of  sequent  epochs  of  civilization,  as  the  evanescent  record  of 
man's  power  of  great  achievement,  as  a  glory  of  history  in 
Homer  and  Phidias,  in  Virgil  and  Arthemius  of  Tralles,  in 
Ambrosian  chant  and  Gregorian  plain-song,  in  the  Arthu- 
rian legends  and  the  Nibelungenlied,  in  Adam  of  St.  Victor 
and  Dante,  in  Cimabue  and  Giotto  and  their  great  succes- 
sors; in  the  cathedrals  and  abbeys  of  medievalism,  in  the 
sculptures  of  Pisa  and  Paris  and  Amiens,  in  Catholic  cere- 
monial, in  the  glass  of  Chartres,  the  tapestries  of  Flanders, 
the  metal-work  of  Spain;  in  the  drama  of  Marlowe  and 
Shakspere,  in  the  music  of  modern  Germany,  in  the  verse  of 
the  English  Victorians.  I  might  speak  of  art  as  an  ornament 
and  amenity  of  life,  a  splendid  vesture  covering  the  naked- 
ness of  society.  I  might  speak  of  it  in  its  economic  aspect,  or 
as  the  handmaid  and  exponent  of  religion. 

Art  is  so  great  a  thing,  so  inalienably  a  heritage  and  a 
natural  right  of  man,  it  has  all  these  aspects,  and  more,  but 
for  the  moment  I  narrow  myself  to  yet  another  considera- 
tion—the function  of  art  as  an  essential  in  education. 

The  adjective  may  strike  you  strangely— an  essential  ele- 
ment—not an  accessory,  an  extension;  but  I  use  it  with  in- 
tention, though  to  justify  such  use  I  must  hasten  to  disavow 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

any  reference  to  the  teaching  ot  art  as  this  now  obtains 
either  in  art-schools  or  under  university  faculties  of  fine  arts. 
It  is,  I  admit,  hard  to  conceive  such  teaching  as  being  of 
necessity  an  integral  part  of  any  scheme  of  general  educa- 
tion, however  efficient  it  may  be  when  viewed  in  the  light 
of  its  own  self-determined  ends,  and  I  should  expect  from 
no  source  endorsement  of  any  argument  for  the  universal 
necessity  of  an  art  education  conceived  on  similar  lines;  but  . 
I  plead  for  a  higher,  or  at  least  broader,  type  of  such  teach- 
ing, because  I  try  to  place  myself  amongst  those  who  set  a 
higher  estimate  on  art,  conceiving  it  to  be  not  an  applied 
science  or  a  branch  of  industrial  training,  nor  yet  an  extreme 
refinement  of  culture  study,  but  simply  an  Indispensable 
means  toward  the  achievement  of  that  which  is  the  end  and 
object  of  education— namely,  the  building  of  character. 

There  were  days,  and  I  think  they  were  very  bad  old  days, 
when  it  was  held  that  education  should  take  no  cognizance 
whatever  of  character,  of  the  making  of  sane,  sound,  hon- 
orable men  and  women,  but  only  of  mental  training  and 
mental  discipline.  Then  it  was  said  with  grave  assurance 
that  it  was  not  the  province  of  public  education  to  deal  with 
religion,  ethics,  or  morals,  except  from  a  strictly  historical 
and  conscientiously  non-sectarian  standpoint,  and  that  the 
place  for  the  teaching  of  these  things  was  the  Home- 
spelled  with  very  large  capitals.  After  a  while  the  compul- 
sion of  events  forced  a  readjustment  of  judgments  and  we 
became  conscious  of  the  fact  that  a  combination  of  influ- 
ences—amongst them  our  very  schools  themselves— had 
resulted  in  the  production  of  homes  where  neither  religion 
nor  ethics  was  taught  at  all,  and  where  conscious  character- 
building  was  of  the  most  superficial  nature,  while  the  con- 
crete results  were  somewhat  perilous  to  society.  Struck  at 
last  by  the  fact  that  our  most  dangerous  criminal  classes 


H 


llu    i^nstJcnf.    Council,    (uid   Pti 
^ULi'hl  X  LuAlfOX  for  pmnioting     * 

AY*//c/  rnniinl  caajk-dtniniions   to    fhr    tftr/fffi..^/ 

i  HE  Rice  /Ns/JTifTj: 

tioi-     of    fh^      -"''■-.  v^..r. 

JoHniiatioi:. 

They  trust  tr.  , 
career  bt/on    it.    as  a  c 
A^r  fhr  advantage  of  fi: 
the  great  State  in 


~y 


'A 


'i  It'll  I    ",' 


Sff^rmbtr  tgrs 


t-.. 


1.  '^^  »-*f- 


•7::.:jT^'' 


*i»" 


N 


1 


any  refe 

eithf^  '■■ 
It  is 
necr 

Oi 


ilig,   i>v 


rt 


RICE  liSSiirUIF 

teaching  of  art  as.  this  now  obtains 

:«  r  university  faculties  of  fine  arts. 

coiKeive  such  teaching  as  being  of 

rt  of  any  scheme  of  general  educa- 

be  when  viewed  in  the  hght 

is,  and  I  should  expeci  from 

irt^iiment  for  the  universal 

»ii  biiitilar  line*;  but 

vpe  of  such  teach- 

^ho  set  a 

■I  applied 

an  extreme 

dispensable 

i!evfnu*nt  ('''  '  end  and 

obu'ct  aucatioii-   n.iinciv,  in-c  i;uiiu  cer. 

rherf  wei  nd  I  think  the         re  very  bad  old  days, 

whr     •  was  held  thdL  cui  -  ^hould  take  no  cognizance 

whatever  of  character^  ot  the  making  of  sane,  sound,  hon- 
or ^^^-  men  and  women,  but  only  of  mental  training  and 
mental  discipline.  Then  it  was  said  with  gr^vc  assurance 
*^i  of  the  province  of  public  education  to  deal  with 

t^'^  historical 

'it  the 

'  if>me  — 

.urnpul- 

i.  laments  and  we 

'  nibina,         )f  influ- 

ves— had 

her  religion 


reiij4ion,  ethic '^ 


11- 

SI 


entji 


lari^c  capi' 


b 

resuiceu 
nor  ethi 
building   ,^ 
Crete  results  v\ 
last  ^-  the  fact  th 


iC    i»iCL    ulai    V 

ery    sci 


JUS  character- 


inerficial  nature,  vvfiile  tlie  con- 
iluu  iV-     Struck  at 

dangerous  criminal  classes 


^^iU4P^ 


'///(  rn  side  lit.  Coiiiia/,  a  mi  /hi/o7k>s  of  THE  ROYAL 
Society  OE  London  for  promofnig  \atnral  Knowledge 
send  coniial  congxatitlations  to  the  Goveniors  and  Staff  of 
The  Rice  Institute,  at  Houston,  Texas,  on  the  initia- 
tion of  the  active  scientific  career  of  that  important 
foundation. 

They  trust  that   THE   RiCE  INSTITUTE  has  a  brilliant 
career  before  it.    as  a  centre  of  enlightenment  and  discoT.fery. 
for  the  advantage  of  the   whole  7i>orld,   and  in  particular  of 
the  great  State  in  which  the  Institute  has  its  seat. 


Sigmd  on  helm  1/  of  flu  ROYAL  SOCIETY  OF  LOXDOX 

for  pron/oliuo  Natnml  Knmf/edj^i 


Stfifiiilhy   n^r2 


N 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

were  made  up  of  those  who  were  extremely  well  educated, 
we  were  compelled,  as  Walt  Whitman  says,  "to  re-examine 
philosophies  and  religions,"  and  some  of  us  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  if  the  schools  were  to  save  the  day,  as  they 
certainly  must  and  certainly  could,  a  new  vision  was  neces- 
sary, and  that  what  they  were  set  to  do  was  the  bending  of 
all  their  energies  and  powers  toward  character-building, 
toward  the  making,  not  only  of  specialists,  but  of  fine  men 
and  women  and  good  citizens. 

Under  the  old  system  the  significance  of  art  and  the  part 
it  could  play  in  education  were  generally  ignored;  it  was 
treated  either  as  an  "extra,"  as  a  special  study  like  Egyptol- 
ogy or  Anglo-Saxon,  and  so  regarded  as  the  somewhat  ef- 
feminate affectation  of  the  dilettante,  or  as  a  "vocational 
course,"  ranking  so  with  mining  engineering,  dentistry,  and 
business  science.  So  taught,  it  was  indeed  no  essential  ele- 
ment in  general  education;  but  if  we  are  right  in  our  new 
view  of  the  province  thereof,  it  may  be  that  our  old  estimate 
of  art  and  its  function  and  its  significance  needs  as  drastic 
a  revision,  and  that  out  of  this  may  come  a  new  method  for 
the  teaching  of  art. 

What  is  it,  then,— this  strange  thing  that  has  accompanied 
man's  development  through  all  history,  always  by  his  side, 
as  faithful  a  servant  and  companion  as  the  horse  or  the  dog, 
as  inseparable  from  him  as  religion  itself;  this  baffling  poten- 
tiality that  has  left  us  authentic  historical  records  where 
written  history  is  silent,  and  where  tradition  darkens  its 
guiding  light?  Is  it  simply  a  collection  of  crafts  like  hunting 
and  husbandry,  commerce  and  war?  Is  it  a  pastime,  the 
industry  of  the  idle,  the  amusement  of  the  rich?  None  of 
these,  I  venture  to  assert,  but  rather  the  visible  record  of  all 
that  Is  noblest  in  man,  the  enduring  proof  of  the  divine  na- 
ture that  is  the  breath  of  his  nostrils. 

1:87:1 


I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Henri  Bergson  says,  in  speaking  of  what  he  calls— inade- 
quately, I  think— intuition:  *'It  glimmers  wherever  a  vital 
instinct  is  at  stake.  On  our  personality,  on  our  liberty,  on 
the  place  we  occupy  in  the  whole  of  nature,  on  our  origin, 
and  perhaps  also  on  our  destiny,  it  throws  a  light,  feeble 
and  vacillating,  but  which  nevertheless  pierces  the  darkness 
of  the  night  in  which  the  intellect  leaves  us.''  Here  lies  the 
province  of  art,  where  it  has  ever  lain;  for  in  all  its  mani- 
festations, whether  as  architecture,  painting,  sculpture, 
drama,  poetry,  or  ritual,  it  is  the  only  visible  and  concrete 
expression  of  this  mystical  power  in  man  which  is  greater 
than  physical  force,  greater  than  physical  mind,  whether 
with  M.  Bergson  we  call  it  intuition,  or  with  the  old  Chris- 
tian philosophers  we  call  it  the  immortal  soul. 

And  as  the  greatest  of  modern  philosophers  has  curbed 
the  intellectualism  of  the  nineteenth  century,  setting  metes 
and  bounds  to  the  province  of  the  mind,  so  he  indicates  again 
the  great  spiritual  domain  into  which  man  penetrates  by  his 
divine  nature,  that  domain  revealed  to  Plato  and  Plotinus, 
to  Hugh  of  St.  Victor  and  St.  Bernard  and  St.  Thomas 
Aquinas.  As  Browning  wrote,  '*A  man's  reach  must  exceed 
his  grasp,  or  what  is  a  heaven  for?"  —  so,  as  man  himself, 
transcending  the  limitations  of  his  intellect,  reaches  out  from 
the  world  of  phenomena  to  that  of  the  noumenon,  as  he  for- 
sakes the  accidents  to  lay  hold  on  the  substance,  he  finds  to 
his  wonder  and  amazement  the  possibility  of  achievement, 
or  at  least  of  approximation,  and  simultaneously  the  over- 
whelming necessity  for  self-expression.  He  has  entered  into 
a  consciousness  that  is  above  consciousness.  Words  and 
mental  concepts  fail,  fall  short,  misrepresent;  for  again,  as 
M.  Bergson  says,  "The  intellect  is  characterized  by  a  natu- 
ral inability  to  comprehend  life,"  and  it  is  life  itself  he  now 
sees  face  to  face,  not  the  inertia  of  material  things;  and  it  is 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

here  that  art  in  all  its  varied  forms  enters  In  as  a  more 
mobile  and  adequate  form  of  self-expression,  since  it  is,  in 
its  highest  estate,  the  symbolic  expression  of  otherwise  in- 
expressible ideas. 

Through  art,  then,  we  come  to  the  revelation  of  the  high- 
est that  man  has  achieved;  not  in  conduct,  not  in  mentality, 
not  in  his  contest  with  the  forces  of  nature,  but  in  the  things 
that  rank  even  higher  than  these— in  spiritual  emancipation 
and  an  apprehension  of  the  absolute,  the  unconditioned. 
The  most  perfect  plexus  of  perfected  arts  the  world  has  ever 
known  was  such  a  cathedral  as  Chartres,  before  its  choir 
was  defiled  by  the  noxious  horrors  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury; when  its  gray  walls  were  hung  with  storied  tapestries, 
its  dim  vaults  echoed  to  solemn  Gregorians  instead  of  oper- 
atic futilities,  and  the  splendid  and  dramatic  ceremonial  of 
medieval  Catholicism  made  visible  the  poignant  religion  of 
a  Christian  people.  And  in  this  amazing  revelation  of  con- 
summate art,  music  was  more  than  "a  concord  of  sweet 
sounds,"  painting  and  sculpture  more  than  the  counterfeit 
presentment  of  defective  nature,  architecture  more  than 
ingenious  masonry;  through  these  and  all  the  other  assem- 
bled arts  radiated,  like  the  colored  fires  through  the  jeweled 
windows  above,  awe,  wonder,  and  worship  of  men  who  had 
seen  some  faint  adumbration  of  the  Beatific  Vision  and  who 
called  aloud  to  their  fellows,  in  the  universal  language  of 
art,  the  glad  tidings  of  great  joy,  that  by  art  man  might 
achieve,  and  through  art  he  might  reveal. 

Now  if  art  is  indeed  all  this— and  the  proof  lies  clear  in 
itself— then  its  place  in  liberal  education  becomes  manifest 
and  its  claims  incontestable.  If  education  is  the  eduction  of 
all  that  is  best  in  man,  the  making  possible  the  realization 
of  all  his  potentialities,  the  building  up  of  personality 
through  the  dynamic  force  of  the  assembled  achievements 


^ 


jl 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

of  the  human  race  throughout  history,  and  all  toward  the 
end  of  perfecting  sane  and  righteous  and  honorable  charac- 
ter, then  must  you  make  art,  so  understood  and  so  taught, 
as  integral  a  part  of  your  curriculum  as  physics  or  mathe- 
matics or  biology.  Not  in  dynastic  mutations,  not  in  the 
red  records  of  war,  not  in  economic  vacillations  or  in  me- 
chanical achievements,  lies  the  revelation  of  man  in  his  high- 
est and  noblest  estate,  but  in  those  spiritual  adventures, 
those  strivings  after  the  unattainable,  those  emancipations 
of  the  human  soul  from  the  hindrance  of  the  material  form, 
which  mark  the  highest  points  of  his  rise,  presage  his  final 
victory,  and  are  recorded  and  revealed  in  the  art  which  is 
their  voicing. 

The  Venus  of  Melos,  "Antigone,"  Aya  Sophia,  Grego- 
rian music,  Latin  hymnology,  the  "Divina  Commedia,'' 
Giotto's  Arena  Chapel,  Chartres,  Westminster  Abbey, 
"Hamlet,"  Goethe's  "Faust,"  "Parsifal,"  "Abt  Vogler,"  are 
all  great  art,  and  as  great  art  beyond  price,  but  greater, 
more  significant  by  far  as  living  indications  of  what  man 
may  be  when  he  plays  his  full  part  in  God's  cosmogony. 

Where  is  art  taught  in  this  sense  and  to  this  end?  I  con- 
fess I  do  not  know.  Instead  we  find  in  many  places  labora- 
tories of  art-industry,  where,  after  one  fashion  or  another, 
ambitious  youth— and  not  always  well  advised— is  shown 
how  to  spread  paint  on  canvas;  how  to  pat  mud  into  some 
quaint  resemblance  to  human  and  zoological  forms;  how  to 
produce  the  voice  in  singing;  how  to  manipulate  the  fingers 
in  uneven  contest  with  ingenious  musical  instruments;  how 
to  assemble  lines  and  washes  on  Whatman  paper  so  that  an 
alien  mason  may  translate  them,  with  as  little  violence  as 
possible,  into  terms  of  brick  and  stone,  or  plaster  and  papier- 
mache.  And  we  find  names,  dates,  sequences  of  artists 
taught  from  text-books,  and  sources  and  influences  taught 

n9o] 


i 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

from  fertile  imaginations,  together  with  erudite  schemes  and 
plots  of  authorship  and  attribution,  but  where  shall  we  find 
the  philosophy,  the  rationale  of  art  inculcated  as  an  ele- 
mental portion  of  the  history  of  man  and  of  his  civilization? 

Categories,  always  categories;  and  we  delimit  them  to 
our  own  undoing.  There  have  been  historians  who  have 
compiled  histories  with  no  knowledge  of  art  and  with  scant 
reference  to  its  existence;  there  have  been  artists  who  have 
taught  art  with  no  knowledge  of  history  and  with  some 
degree  of  contempt  for  its  pretensions:  yet  the  two  are  one, 
and  neither,  from  an  educational  standpoint,  is  wholly 
intelligible  without  the  other.  It  is  through  Homer  and 
iEschylus  that  we  understand  Hellas;  through  Aya  Sophia 
that  we  understand  Byzantium;  through  Gothic  art  that  we 
know  medievalism;  through  St.  Peter's  and  Guido  Reni  that 
the  final  goal  of  the  Renaissance  is  revealed  to  us.  And  so, 
on  the  other  hand,  what,  for  example,  is  the  art  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages  if  we  know  nothing  of  the  burgeoning  life  that 
burst  into  this  splendid  flowering?  What  are  the  cathedral- 
builders  to  us,  and  the  myriad  artists  allied  with  them,  when 
severed  from  monasticism,  the  Catholic  revival,  the  Cru- 
sades, feudalism,  the  guilds  and  communes,  the  sacramental 
philosophy  of  Hugh  of  St.  Victor,  and  the  scholastic  philos- 
ophy of  St.  Thomas  Aquinas?  We  build  our  little  categori- 
cal box-stalls  and  herd  history  in  one,  art  in  another,  religion 
in  a  third,  philosophy  in  a  fourth,  and  so  on,  until  we  have 
built  a  labyrinth  of  little  cells,  hermetically  sealed  and  se- 
curely insulated;  and  then  we  wonder  that  our  own  civiliza- 
tion is  of  the  same  sort,  and  that  over  us  hangs  the  threat 
of  an  ultimate  bursting  forth  of  imprisoned  and  antagonistic 
forces,  with  chaos  and  anarchy  as  the  predicted  end. 

Again  we  approach  one  of  those  great  moments  of  re- 
adjustment when  much  that  has  been  perishes  and  much  that 

19^ 


i 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

was  not  comes  into  being;  one  of  those  nodes  that,  at  five- 
hundred-year  intervals,  mark  the  vast  vibration  of  history. 
For  five  centuries  the  tendencies  set  in  motion  by  the  Renais- 
sance have  had  full  sway;  and  as  the  great  epoch  of  medi- 
evalism ended  at  last  in  a  decadence  that  was  inevitable,  so 
is  it  with  our  era,  called  '*of  enlightenment,''  the  essence  of 
which  is  analysis  as  the  essence  of  that  was  synthesis.  As 
medievalism  was  centripetal,  so  is  modernism  centrifugal, 
and  disintegration  follows  on  faster  and  ever  faster.  Even 
now,  however,  the  falling  wave  meets  in  its  plunge  and  foam 
the  rising  wave  that  bears  on  its  smooth,  resistless  surge  the 
promise  and  potency  of  a  new  epoch,  nobler  than  the  last, 
and  again  synthetic,  creative,  centripetal. 

No  longer  is  it  possible  for  us  to  sever  being  into  its  com- 
ponent parts  and  look  for  life  in  each  moiety;  for  us,  and 
for  our  successors,  is  the  building  up  of  a  new  synthesis,  the 
new  vision  of  life  as  a  whole,  where  no  more  are  we  inter- 
ested in  isolating  religion,  politics,  education,  industry,  art, 
like  so  many  curious  fever-germs,  but  where  once  more  we 
realize  that  the  potency  of  each  lies,  not  in  its  own  distinctive 
characteristics,  but  in  the  interplay  of  all. 

And  with  this  vision  we  return  to  the  consciousness  that 
all  great  art  is  a  light  to  lighten  the  darkness  of  mere  activ- 
ity, that  at  the  same  time  it  achieves  and  reveals.  So,  as  art 
shows  forth  man's  transfiguration,  does  it  also  serve  as  a 
gloss  on  his  actions,  revealing  that  which  was  hid,  illuminat- 
ing that  which  was  obscure. 

So  estimated  and  so  inculcated,  art  becomes,  not  an  acces- 
sory, but  an  essential,  and  as  such  it  must  be  made  an  inte- 
gral portion  of  every  scheme  of  higher  education.  A  col- 
lege can  well  do  without  a  school  of  architecture,  or  music, 
or  painting,  or  drama,  and  the  world  will  perhaps  be  none 
the  poorer;  but  it  cannot  do  without  the  best  of  every  art  in 

1:923 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

its  material  form,  and  in  the  cultural  influences  it  brings  to 
bear  upon  those  committed  to  its  charge,  nor  can  it  play  its 
full  part  in  their  training  and  the  development  of  their  char- 
acter unless,  out  of  the  history  of  art,  it  builds  a  philosophy 
of  art  that  is  not  for  the  embellishment  of  the  specialist,  but 
for  all, 

**Man  Is  the  measure  of  all  things,"  said  Protagoras;  and 
with  equal  truth  we  can  say.  Art  Is  the  measure  of  man. 

President  Lovett:  It  Is  with  sincere  regret  that  I  bring 
this  meeting  to  a  close.  We  have  listened  to  philosopher, 
poet,  historian,  and  architect,  to  biologist,  chemist,  physicist, 
and  mathematician,  and  while  we  may  neither  point  to  the 
rooms  In  which  Newton  lived,  as  the  Cambridge  don  may 
do  at  Trinity  College,  nor  to  the  laboratories  where  Pasteur 
wrought,  as  may  the  doctors  of  Paris,  yet  from  this  night 
forth  we  shall  forever  be  able  to  say  that  at  this  high  table 
of  the  first  Residential  College  of  the  Rice  Institute,  Alta- 
mlra,  Borel,  Conklln,  Cram,  de  Vrles,  Jones,  Ramsay,  van 
Dyke,  and  Volterra  broke  bread  with  us,  and  spoke  to  us 
of  the  things  of  beauty  and  truth  that  freemen  hold  dearer 
than  life  Itself.  For  them  and  for  you,  sound  slumber  and 
sweet  dreams  for  the  night;  and  for  the  morrow.  In  the 
words  of  Kipling,  *'What  all  men  desire— enough  work  to 
do  and  strength  enough  to  do  that  work."  And  as  a  final 
favor  I  am  going  to  ask  Professors  Sir  Henry  Jones  and  Sir 
William  Ramsay  to  lead  us  In  singing,  "Should  auld  acquain- 
tance be  forgot." 


1:933 


///// 


^y  //f 


/ 


fT^'.J 


A  .^ 


t  r/' 


//, 


'  I'  If  /  I  tr  / 


/, 


^// 


,////./ 


/" 


•/ 


( 


.     tl 


FORMAL  EXERCISES  OF 
DEDICATION 


t» 


m 


FORMAL  EXERCISES  OF  DEDICATION 

Dr.  Robert  Ernest  Vinson  : 

1.  The  earth  Is  the  Lord's,  and  the  fullness  thereof;  the 
world,  and  they  that  dwell  therein. 

2.  For  he  hath  founded  it  upon  the  seas,  and  established 
it  upon  the  floods. 

3.  Who  shall  ascend  into  the  hill  of  the  Lord?  or  who 
shall  stand  in  his  holy  place? 

4.  He  that  hath  clean  hands,  and  a  pure  heart ;  who  hath 
not  lifted  up  his  soul  unto  vanity,  nor  sworn  deceitfully. 

5.  He  shall  receive  the  blessing  from  the  Lord,  and  right- 
eousness from  the  God  of  his  salvation. 

6.  This  is  the  generation  of  them  that  seek  him,  that  seek 
thy  face,  O  Jacob.    Selah. 

7.  Lift  up  your  heads,  O  ye  gates;  and  be  ye  lifted  up,  ye 
everlasting  doors;  and  the  King  of  glory  shall  come  in. 

8.  Who  is  this  King  of  glory?     The  Lord  strong  and 
mighty,  the  Lord  mighty  in  battle. 

9.  Lift  up  your  heads,  O  ye  gates;  even  lift  them  up,  ye 
everlasting  doors;  and  the  King  of  glory  shall  come  in. 

10.  Who  is  this  King  of  glory?    The  Lord  of  hosts,  he  is 

the  King  of  glory.    Selah. 

Psalm  xxk\ 


I, 


>      M 


•i 

M 


12.  But  where  shall  wisdom  be  found?  and  where  is  the 
place  of  understanding? 

13.  Man  knoweth  not  the  price  thereof;  neither  is  it 
found  in  the  land  of  the  living. 

C973 


rtf 


,^^. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

14.  The  depth  saith,  It  is  not  in  me:  and  the  sea  saith,  It 
is  not  with  me. 

15.  It  cannot  be  gotten  for  gold,  neither  shall  silver  be 
weighed  for  the  price  thereof. 

16.  It  cannot  be  valued  with  the  gold  of  Ophir,  with  the 
precious  onyx,  or  the  sapphire. 

17.  The  gold  and  the  crystal  cannot  equal  it:  and  the  ex- 
change of  it  shall  not  be  for  jewels  of  fine  gold. 

18.  No  mention  shall  be  made  of  coral,  or  of  pearls:  for 
the  price  of  wisdom  is  above  rubies. 

19.  The  topaz  of  Ethiopia  shall  not  equal  it,  neither  shall 
it  be  valued  with  pure  gold. 

20.  Whence  then  cometh  wisdom?  and  where  is  the  place 
of  understanding? 

21.  Seeing  it  is  hid  from  the  eyes  of  all  living,  and  kept 
close  from  the  fowls  of  the  air. 

22.  Destruction  and  death  say.  We  have  heard  the  fame 
thereof  with  our  ears. 

23.  God  understandeth  the  way  thereof,  and  he  knoweth 
the  place  thereof. 

24.  For  he  looketh  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  and  seeth 
under  the  whole  heaven; 

25.  To  make  the  weight  for  the  winds;  and  he  weigheth 
the  waters  by  measure. 

26.  When  he  made  a  decree  for  the  rain,  and  a  way  for 
the  lightning  of  the  thunder: 

27.  Then  he  did  see  it,  and  declare  it;  he  prepared  it,  yea, 
and  searched  it  out. 

28.  And  unto  man  he  said.  Behold,  the  fear  of  the  Lord, 
that  is  wisdom;  and  to  depart  from  evil  is  understanding. 

Job  xxviii,  12-28. 
1:98:1 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

12.  Then  spake  Jesus  again  unto  them,  saying,  I  am  the 
light  of  the  world:  he  that  followeth  me  shall  not  walk  in 
darkness,  but  shall  have  the  light  of  life. 

John  via,  12, 

Dr.  Robert  Ernest  Vinson  :  Almighty  God,  our  Father 
who  art  in  heaven,  we  bow  our  heads  with  our  hearts  before 
Thee  this  day  in  humble  adoration.  Thou  art  King  of  kings 
and  Lord  of  lords.  Creator  of  the  heavens  and  the  earth,  the 
same  yesterday  and  to-day  and  forever,  God  over  all, 
blessed  forevermore.  Thou  art  worthy  of  the  admiration 
of  all  intelligent  creatures.  The  heavens  declare  Thy  glory 
and  the  firmament  showeth  forth  Thy  handiwork. 

Thou  art  the  author  and  source  of  all  life  and  of  all  good. 
Thou  art  the  maker  of  our  bodies  and  the  fashioner  of  our 
spirits.  Thou  openest  Thine  hand  and  satisfiest  our  desires 
with  the  desires  of  every  living  thing.  Thou  hidest  Thy  face 
and  we  are  troubled.  Thou  takest  away  our  breath,  we  die 
and  return  again  to  our  dust.  Thou  art  the  sustainer  and 
the  disposer  of  our  days.  Our  times  are  in  Thy  hand.  Thou 
hast  made  us  for  Thyself,  that  we  might  show  forth  Thy 

praise. 

We  render  Thee  most  hearty  thanks  for  all  Thy  great 
goodness  unto  us,  the  children  of  men.  Thy  mercies  are  new 
every  morning  and  fresh  every  evening.  Thou  hast  not  left 
Thyself  without  a  witness  among  men,  for  Thy  loving-kind- 
ness is  over  all  Thy  works.  Thou  hast  blessed  us  as  indi- 
viduals and  as  a  people,  in  basket  and  in  store,  in  body  and 
in  mind,  and  through  the  atoning  blood  of  Jesus  Christ,  Thy 
Son,  our  Lord,  Thou  hast  redeemed  us  from  sin  and  death, 
hast  made  us  kings  and  priests  unto  our  God  and  Father, 
and  hast  given  unto  us  the  hope  of  eternal  life  in  His  name. 

We  render  Thee  most  hearty  thanks,  our  heavenly  Fa- 

[99] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

ther,  for  the  favor  which  is  ours  to-day  as  we  set  apart  this 
institution  to  the  promotion  of  the  cause  of  truth  among 
men  and  to  the  greater  glory  of  our  God.  Especially  do  we 
remember  with  gratitude  to  Thee  the  name  of  him  whose 
generosity  and  love  for  his  kind  have  made  this  day  possi- 
ble. We  thank  Thee,  that  in  him  were  united  both  the  abil- 
ity and  the  desire  to  bless  his  fellow-men,  and  that  it  has 
been  given  unto  him  to  establish  this  institution  that  the 
darkness  of  Ignorance  may  be  dispelled  and  that  men  may 
dwell  In  the  light  which  comes  from  the  truth.  We  thank 
Thee  that  our  eyes  behold  this  day  the  fruition  of  his  hopes, 
and  that  he,  being  dead,  yet  speaketh. 

We  humbly  pray  Thee,  therefore,  that  Thou  wilt  gra- 
ciously accept  this  offering  at  our  hands.  In  Thy  mercy 
grant  that  this  Institution  may  endure  through  all  the  years 
to  come,  that  its  Influence  may  broaden  with  its  days,  and 
that  it  may  so  touch  and  guide  the  life  of  this  city,  the  com- 
monwealth, and  the  nation,  that  generations  yet  unborn  may 
bless  the  day  of  Its  beginning.  Guard  It  by  Thy  almighty 
power  from  harm,  that  Its  work  may  be  unhindered  by 
calamity.  Fill  It  with  the  spirit  of  truth  and  of  service,  and 
by  Thy  grace  make  It  to  be  a  useful  instrument  in  Thy  hands 
for  the  advancement  of  Thy  kingdom,  that  it  may  have  no 
small  part  In  the  hastening  of  the  day  w^hen  all  of  the  world's 
ignorance  shall  be  abolished,  when  men  shall  no  longer  op- 
press their  fellows,  but  when  the  spirit  of  brotherhood  shall 
prevail,  and  all  men  together  shall  strive  for  the  common 
good  in  full  obedience  to  the  ordinances  of  God. 

To  this  end  w^e  beseech  Thee  to  look  with  favor  upon  the 
Board  of  Trustees,  giving  to  them  all  necessary  wisdom  and 
grace,  that  they  may  administer  this  great  trust  as  good 
stewards,  with  all  fidelity.  Crown  with  Thy  favor  Thy 
servant,  the  president.  Into  whose  hands  and  upon  whose 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

heart  this  responsibility  has  been  laid,  and  who  stands  to-day 
upon  the  threshold  of  this  great  opportunity.    Give  to  him 
high  visions  of  the  service  to  God  and  to  man  to  which  he 
may  minister  In  this  place.     May  the  call  of  this  privilege 
uplift  him.     May  the  burden  of  the  heavy  task  before  him 
lead  him  to  lean  heavily  upon  Thy  strength.    May  Thy  good 
Spirit  so  rule  In  his  heart  and  so  own  and  bless  his  work  that 
he  may  go  forward  to  his  task  with  unfaltering  courage  and, 
if  it  please  Thee,  to  abundant  success,  being  given  the  desires 
of  his  heart.    We  beseech  Thee  for  the  teachers  who  are  to 
stand  within  these  walls,  the  leaders  of  the  youth  of  to-day 
and  to-morrow.     Grant,  our  Father,  that  they  may  all  be 
taught  of  Thee,  that  they  may  catch  Thy  Spirit  and  Thy 
mind,  and  that  Thy  truth  may  be  their  continual  abiding- 
place.    May  they  be  conscious  of  the  Issues  of  time  and  eter- 
nity with  which  they  must  deal  as  they  lead  the  minds  of 
men;  and  may  they,  therefore,  humbly  follow  Him  who 
alone  Is  the  Light  of  the  world.     Give  them  that  wisdom 
which  begins  in  the  fear  of  Thyself,  and  that  understanding 
which  is  found  only  In  departure  from  evil,  that  the  youth 
who  shall  be  committed  to  their  charge  may  be  led  by  them 
not  only  Into  high  Intellectual  achievement,  but  also  into  the 
likeness  of  Jesus  Christ  our  Lord. 

And  thus  may  all  the  Influences  of  this  Institution  con- 
tribute to  human  good.  Make  it,  we  pray  Thee,  the  uncom- 
promising foe  to  vice  and  crime,  to  Ignorance  and  sin.  May 
the  streams  of  Its  Influence  heal  many  of  the  waste  places 
of  earth  and  make  glad  the  city  of  God,  that  Thy  kingdom 
may  come  and  Thy  will  may  be  done  upon  the  earth  as  It  Is 
done  in  heaven.  And  to  Thy  great  name.  Father,  Son,  and 
Spirit,  shall  be  all  the  praise,  both  now  and  forever.  Amen. 


CioO 


t         u 


(  1 


i 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


\ 


Veni  Creator  Spiritus 


G.P. da  Palestrina 


i 


I; 


3* 


P 


'■kw.  -  ai  ^=?f=i 


? 


i 


1 


nC- 


^ 


W 


^ 


'O 


tl 


-*>- 


l.Ve    -   ni,  Cre 

2.  Da      gaii-di 

3.  Sit     laus  Pa 


-   a -tor       Spi-ri    -   tus, 


o  -  rum     prae  -  mi 
tri  cum      Fi  -  11 


-    a, 
'      o 


Men-tes  tu 
Da  gra  -  ti 
San-cto    si 


^ 


'S 


3t 


rp=^ 


± 


g 


i 


E 


s: 


J* 


iZ 


H 


^5^ 
»!/" 


« 


^ 


^ 


i 


O 


P 


« 


/ 

3fc 


^ 


0  -rum 
o  -rum 
mul  Pa 


VI  -SI 

mu-ne 
ra-cli 


I 


ta, 
ra, 
to, 


ple  su  -  per-na 
sol-ve  li  -  tis 
bis-que    mit-tat 


gra  -  ti 

vin  -  cu 

Fi  -  li 


■«- 


^ 


/ 


22 


-^ 


^ 


7 


P 


E 


^ 


w/ 


s^ 


1>  rfm. 


FT 


'/j         I       ^j  p^_ 


E^ 


/Ts 


2>p 

O 


-»- 


f 


-»- 


XE 


«: 


H 


Quae  tu  cre  -  a  -  sti, 
Ad  strin-ge  pa-cis 
Cha  -    ri  -  braa    San-cti . 


pe 
foe 
Spi 


cto 

de 

ri 


ra. 
ra. 
tus. 


D02;] 


O 


^ 


a 

la, 
us, 

00 


i^: 


/^ 


«: 


1 


A   -    men. 


i 


TEXAS 

A  DEMOCRATIC  ODE 


THE  WILD  BEES 

ALL  along  the  Brazos  river, 
jl\.  A1!  along  the  Colorado, 
In  the  valleys  and  the  lowlands 
Where  the  trees  were  tall  and  stately, 
In  the  rich  and  rolling  meadows 
Where  the  grass  was  full  of  wild-flowers. 
Came  a  humming  and  a  buzzing. 
Came  the  murmur  of  a  going 
To  and  fro  among  the  tree-tops. 
Far  and  wide  across  the  meadows. 
And  the  red-men  in  their  tepees 
Smoked  their  pipes  of  clay  and  listened. 
*'What  is  this?"  they  asked  in  wonder; 
**Who  can  give  the  sound  a  meaning? 
Who  can  understand  the  language 
Of  a  going  in  the  tree-tops?'* 
Then  the  wisest  of  the  Tejas 
Laid  his  pipe  aside  and  answered: 
"O  my  brothers,  these  are  people, 
Very  little,  winged  people. 
Countless,  busy,  banded  people. 
Coming  humming  through  the  timber. 
These  are  tribes  of  bees,  united 
By  a  single  aim  and  purpose. 
To  possess  the  Tejas'  country. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Gather  harvest  from  the  prairies, 
Store  their  wealth  among  the  timber. 
These  are  hive  and  honey  makers, 
Sent  by  Manito  to  warn  us 
That  the  white  men  now  are  coming, 
With  their  women  and  their  children. 
Not  the  fiery  filibusters 
Passing  wildly  in  a  moment, 
Like  a  flame  across  the  prairies. 
Like  a  whirlwind  through  the  forest, 
Leaving  empty  lands  behind  them ! 
Not  the  Mexicans  and  Spaniards, 
Indolent  and  proud  hidalgos. 
Dwelling  in  their  haciendas, 
Dreaming,  talking  of  to-morrow, 
While  their  cattle  graze  around  them. 
And  their  fickle  revolutions 
Change  the  rulers,  not  the  people  1 
Other  folk  are  these  who  follow 
When  the  wild-bees  come  to  warn  us; 
These  are  hive  and  honey  makers, 
These  are  busy,  banded  people. 
Roaming  far  to  swarm  and  settle. 
Working  every  day  for  harvest. 
Fighting  hard  for  peace  and  order, 
Worshiping  as  queens  their  women, 
Making  homes  and  building  cities 
Full  of  riches  and  of  trouble. 
All  our  hunting-grounds  must  vanish, 
All  our  lodges  fall  before  them. 
All  our  customs  and  traditions. 
All  our  happy  life  of  freedom. 
Fade  away  like  smoke  before  them. 


■4 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Come,  my  brothers,  strike  your  tepees. 

Call  your  women,  load  your  ponies ! 

Let  us  take  the  trail  to  westward. 

Where  the  plains  are  wide  and  open, 

Where  the  bison-herds  are  gathered 

Waiting  for  our  feathered  arrows. 

We  will  live  as  lived  our  fathers. 

Gleaners  of  the  gifts  of  nature. 

Hunters  of  the  unkept  cattle. 

Men  whose  women  run  to  serve  them. 

If  the  toiling  bees  pursue  us. 

If  the  white  men  seek  to  tame  us. 

We  will  fight  them  off  and  flee  them. 

Break  their  hives  and  take  their  honey. 

Moving  westward,  ever  westward. 

There  to  live  as  lived  our  fathers." 

So  the  red-men  drove  their  ponies. 

With  the  tent-poles  trailing  after. 

Out  along  the  path  to  sunset. 

While  along  the  river  valleys 

Swarmed  the  wild-bees,  the  forerunners; 

And  the  white  men,  close  behind  them. 

Men  of  mark  from  old  Missouri, 

Men  of  daring  from  Kentucky, 

Tennessee,  Louisiana, 

Men  of  many  States  and  races, 

Bringing  waives  and  children  with  them. 

Followed  up  the  wooded  valleys. 

Spread  across  the  rolling  prairies. 

Raising  homes  and  reaping  harvests. 

Rude  the  toil  that  tried  their  patience. 

Fierce  the  fights  that  proved  their  courage. 

Rough  the  stone  and  tough  the  timber 

^05  3 


s 

I 


I     * 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Out  of  which  they  built  their  order! 
Yet  they  never  failed  nor  faltered, 
And  the  instinct  of  their  swarming 
Made  them  one  and  kept  them  working, 
Till  their  toil  was  crowned  with  triumph. 
And  the  country  of  the  Tejas 
Was  the  fertile  land  of  Texas. 


II 


THE  LONE  STAR 


Behold  a  star  appearing  in  the  South  — 
A  star  that  shines  apart  from  other  stars, 

Ruddy  and  fierce,  like  Mars ! 
Out  of  the  reeking  smoke  of  cannon's  mouth 
That  veils  the  slaughter  of  the  Alamo, 

Where  heroes  face  the  foe. 
One  man  against  a  score,  with  blood-choked  breath 
Shouting  the  watchword,  "Victory  or  Death—" 
Out  of  the  dreadful  cloud  that  settles  low 

On  Goliad's  plain, 
Where  thrice  a  hundred  prisoners  lie  slain 
Beneath  the  broken  word  of  Mexico- 
Out  of  the  fog  of  factions  and  of  feuds 

That  ever  drifts  and  broods 
Above  the  bloody  path  of  border  war, 

Leaps  the  Lone  Star! 

What  light  is  this  that  does  not  dread  the  dark? 
What  star  is  this  that  fights  a  stormy  way 

To  San  Jacinto's  field  of  victory? 

It  is  the  fiery  spark 

Cioe;] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

That  burns  within  the  breast 
Of  Anglo-Saxon  men,  who  can  not  rest 

Under  a  tyrant's  sway; 

The  upward-leading  ray 
That  guides  the  brave  who  give  their  lives  away 

Rather  than  not  be  free! 
O  question  not,  but  honour  every  name, 
Travis  and  Crockett,  Bowie,  Bonham,  Ward, 
Fannin  and  King,  all  who  drew  the  sword 
And  dared  to  die  for  Texan  liberty! 
Yea,  write  them  all  upon  the  roll  of  fame. 
But  no  less  love  and  equal  honour  give 
To  those  who  paid  the  longer  sacrifice- 
Austin  and  Houston,  Burnet,  Rusk,  Lamar 
And  all  the  stalwart  men  who  dared  to  live 
Long  years  of  service  to  the  lonely  star. 

Great  is  the  worth  of  such  heroic  souls : 
Amid  the  strenuous  turmoil  of  their  deeds. 
They  clearly  speak  of  something  that  controls 
The  higher  breeds  of  men  by  higher  needs 
Than  bees,  content  with  honey  in  their  hives ! 

Ah,  not  enough  the  narrow  lives 

On  profitable  toil  intent! 
And  not  enough  the  guerdons  of  success 
Garnered  in  homes  of  affluent  selfishness! 

A  noble  discontent 

Cries  for  a  wider  scope 
To  use  the  wider  wings  of  human  hope ; 

A  vision  of  the  common  good 
Opens  the  prison-door  of  solitude; 

And,  once  beyond  the  wall. 

Breathing  the  ampler  air, 


f 


i 


^ 


t '"  I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

The  heart  becomes  aware 
That  life  without  a  country  is  not  life  at  all. 
A  country  worthy  of  a  freeman's  love; 
A  country  worthy  of  a  good  man's  prayer; 
A  country  strong,  and  just,  and  brave,  and  fair, 
A  woman's  form  of  beauty  throned  above 
The  shrine  where  noble  aspirations  meet — 
To  live  for  her  is  great,  to  die  is  sweet  I 

Heirs  of  the  rugged  pioneers 

Who  dreamed  this  dream  and  made  it  true, 

Remember  that  they  dreamed  for  you. 

They  did  not  fear  their  fate 

In  those  tempestuous  years. 
But  put  their  trust  in  God,  and  with  keen  eyes, 
Trained  in  the  open  air  for  looking  far. 

They  saw  the  many-million-acred  land 

Won  from  the  desert  by  their  hand. 

Swiftly  among  the  nations  rise,— 
Texas  a  sovereign  State, 
And  on  her  brow  a  star ! 


Ill 


THE  CONSTELLATION 

How  strange  that  the  nature  of  light  is  a  thing  beyond  our 
ken. 
And  the  flame  of  the  tiniest  candle  flows  from  a  fountain 
sealed! 
How  strange  that  the  meaning  of  life,  in  the  little  lives  of 
men, 
So  often  bafl^es  our  search  with  a  mystery  unrevealed ! 


i 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

But  the  larger  life  of  man,  as  it  moves  in  its  secular  sweep, 
Is  the  working  out  of  a  Sovereign  Will  whose  ways 
appear; 
And  the  course  of  the  journeying  stars  on  the  dark  blue 
boundless  deep. 
Is  the  place  where  our  science  rests  in  the  reign  of  law 
most  clear. 

I  would  read  the  story  of  Texas  as  if  it  were  written  on 
high ; 
I  would  look  from  afar  to  follow  her  path  through  the 
calms  and  storms; 
With  a  faith  in  the  world-wide  sway  of  the  Reason  that  rules 
in  the  sky, 
And  gathers  and  guides  the  starry  host  in  clusters  and 

swarms. 

When  she  rose  in  the  pride  of  her  youth,  she  seemed  to  be 
moving  apart, 
As  a  single  star  in  the  South,  self-limited,  self-possessed; 
But  the  law  of  the  constellation  was  written  deep  in  her 
heart. 
And  she  heard  when  her  sisters  called,  from  the  North 
and  the  East  and  the  West. 

They  were  drawn  together  and  moved  by  a  common  hope 
and  aim  — 
The  dream  of  a  sign  that  should  rule  a  third  of  the 
heavenly  arch; 
The  soul  of  a  people  spoke  in  their  call,  and  Texas  came 
To  enter  the  splendid  circle  of  States  in  their  onward 
march. 

1:109:] 


I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

So  the  glory  gathered  and  grew  and  spread  from  sea  to  sea, 
And  the  stars  of  the  great  republic  lent  each  other  light; 

For  all  were  bound  together  in  strength,  and  each  was  free — 
Suddenly  broke  the  tempest  out  of  the  ancient  night  I 

It  came  as  a  clash  of  the  force  that  drives  and  the  force  that 
draws ; 
And  the  stars  were  riven  asunder,  the  heavens  were 
desolate, 
While  brother  fought  with  brother,  each  for  his  country's 
cause — 
But  the  country  of  one  was  the  Nation,  the  country  of 
other  the  State. 

Oh,  who  shall  measure  the  praise  or  blame  in  a  strife  so 
vast? 
And  who  shall  speak  of  traitors  or  tyrants  when  all  were 
true  ? 
We  lift  our  eyes  to  the  sky,  and  rejoice  that  the  storm  is  past, 
And  we  thank  the  God  of  all  that  the  Union  shines  in  the 
blue. 

Yea,  it  glows  with  the  glory  of  peace  and  the  hope  of  a 
mighty  race. 
High  over  the  grave  of  broken  chains  and  buried  hates ; 
And  the  great,  big  star  of  Texas  is  shining  clear  in  its  place 
In  the  constellate  symbol  and  sign  of  the  free  United 
States. 


C^^o] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


IV 


AFTER  THE  PIONEERS 


After  the  pioneers- 
Big-hearted,  big-handed  lords  of  the  axe  and  the  plow  and 

the  rifle, 
Tan-faced  tamers  of  horses  and  lands,  themselves  remaining 

tameless, 
Full  of  fighting,  labour  and  romance,  lovers  of  rude 

adventure- 
After  the  pioneers  have  cleared  the  way  to  their  homes  and 

graves  on  the  prairies : 

After  the  State-builders— 

Zealous  and  jealous  men,  dreamers,  debaters,  often  at  odds 

with  each  other. 
All  of  them  sure  it  is  well  to  toil  and  to  die,  if  need  be. 
Just  for  the  sake  of  founding  a  country  to  leave  to  their 

children — 
After  the  builders  have  done  their  work  and  written  their 

names  upon  it: 


After  the  civil  war- 
Wildest  of  all  storms,  cruel  and  dark  and  seemingly 

wasteful. 
Tearing  up  by  the  root  the  vines  that  were  splitting  the  old 

foundations, 
Washing  away  with  a  rain  of  blood  and  tears  the  dust  of 

slavery, 
After  the  cyclone  has  passed  and  the  sky  is  fair  to  the  far 

horizon ; 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

After  the  era  of  plenty  and  peace  has  come  with  full  hands 

to  Texas, 
Then — what  then? 

Is  it  to  be  the  life  of  an  indolent  heir,  fat-witted  and 

self-contented, 
Dwelling  at  ease  in  the  house  that  others  have  builded, 
Boasting  about  the  country  for  which  he  has  done  nothing? 
Is  It  to  be  an  age  of  corpulent,  deadly-dull  prosperity, 
Richer  and  richer  crops  to  nourish  a  race  of  Philistines, 
Bigger  and  bigger  cities  full  of  the  same  confusion  and 

sorrow, 
The  people  increasing  mightily  but  no  increase  of  the 

joy? 

Is  this  what  the  forerunners  wished  and  toiled  to  w^n  for 

you. 
This  the  reward  of  war  and  the  fruitage  of  high  endeavour, 
This  the  goal  of  your  hopes  and  the  vision  that  satisfies  you? 

Nay,  stand  up  and  answer— I  can  read  what  is  in  your 

hearts — 
You,  the  children  of  those  who  followed  the  wild  bees, 
You,  the  children  of  those  w^ho  served  the  Lone  Star, 
Now  that  the  hives  are  full  and  the  star  is  fixed  in  the 

constellation, 
I  know  that  the  best  of  you  still  are  lovers  of  sweetness  and 

light  1 
You  hunger  for  honey  that  comes  from  invisible  gardens; 
Pure,  translucent,  golden  thoughts  and  feelings  and 

inspirations, 
Sweetness  of  all  the  best  that  has  bloomed  in  the  mind  of 

man. 


t  I 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

You  rejoice  in  the  hght  that  is  breaking  along  the  borders  of 

science ; 
The  hidden  rays  that  enable  a  man  to  look  through  a  wall  of 

stone ; 
The  unseen,  fire-filled  wings  that  carry  his  words  across  the 

ocean; 
The  splendid  gift  of  flight  that  shines,  half-captured,  above 

him; 
The  gleam  of  a  thousand  half-guessed  secrets,  just  ready  to 

be  discovered! 
You  dream  and  devise  great  things  for  the  coming 

race — 
Children  of  yours  who  shall  people  and  rule  the  domain  of 

Texas; 
They  shall  know,  they  shall  comprehend  more  than  their 

fathers, 
They  shall  grow  in  the  vigour  of  well-rounded  manhood  and 

womanhood, 
Riper  minds,  richer  hearts,  finer  souls,  the  only  true  wealth 

of  a  nation — 
The  league-long  fields  of  the  State  are  pledged  to  ensure  this 

harvest  I 

Your  old  men  have  dreamed  this  dream  and  your  young 

men  have  seen  this  vision. 
The  age  of  romance  has  not  gone,  it  Is  only  beginning; 
Greater  words  than  the  ear  of  man  has  heard  are  waiting  to 

be  spoken, 
Finer  arts  than  the  eyes  of  man  have  seen  are  sleeping  to  be 

awakened — 
Science  exploring  the  scope  of  the  world, 
Poetry  breathing  the  hope  of  the  world, 
Music  to  measure  and  lead  the  onward  march  of  man ! 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Come,  ye  honoured  and  welcome  guests  from  the  elder 

nations, 
Princes  of  science  and  arts  and  letters, 
Look  on  the  walls  that  embody  the  generous  dream  of  one 

of  the  old  men  of  Texas, 
Enter  these  halls  of  learning  that  rise  In  the  land  of  the 

pioneer's  log-cabin, 
Read  the  confessions  of  faith  that  are  carved  on  the  stones 

around  you : 
Faith  in  the  worth  of  the  smallest  fact  and  the  laws  that 

govern  the  starbeams — 
Faith  in  the  beauty  of  truth  and  the  truth  of  perfect  beauty. 
Faith  in  the  God  who  creates  the  souls  of  men  by  knowledge 

and  love  and  worship. 
This  is  the  faith  of  the  New  Democracy — 
Proud  and  humble,  patiently  pressing  forward, 
Praising  her  heroes  of  old  and  training  her  future  leaders, 
Seeking  her  crown  in  a  nobler  race  of  men  and  women — 
After  the  pioneers,  sweetness  and  light  I 

Henry  van  Dyke. 


»/ 


n"43 


A 

•■■•■, 


,"  f 


u 

t> 


i 

it      — ' 

^ 

t.       i- 

■^ 

it 


V 

« 


K 
« 


5        ¥ 


* 

e 
r 


Co 

s  « 


e 


I 


1^ 


€ 


«: 


«: 


$ 


t  I 


THF  ^^TCE  TV^TITUTE 

Come,  v^  hr»n.>!;revi  an.i  welcome  guests  from  the  elder 


/ 


Princes  oi 


'  and  arts  and  letters, 

'  embody  the  ge-^"**'  us  dream  of  one 
Texas, 

' -'^-'e  in  the  land  of  the 


^h  fhjit  are  carv^ed  on  the  stones 

md  the  laws  that 

d  the  truth  of  perfect  beauty, 
r^'  ihe  ^  >'ib    '^ '^'""  ^y  knowledge 

andiovr  ana  worship 
'I         .'  the  faith  of  the  New  Demofracn  - 
i'food  and  humDie,  paticniiy  pre  >rward, 

Praising  her  h  of  old  and  traimng  her  future  leaders, 

occiving  her  Liuvvn  in  a  nobler  race  of  men  ana  wuiacn — 
After  the  pioneers,  sweetness  and  light! 

*  Henry  van  Dyke. 


l^^^l 


1 

*) 

S 

a 

(0 

«: 

c 

5 

•w 

) 

o 

ts 

!^ 

e 

% 

«. 

^ 

*^ 

(^ 

0; 

,c 

*. 

CC 

« 

o 

TJ 

s^ 

1 

\ 

"K 

^ 

V  \                     ^^ 

«. 

«^ 

« 

V               « 

■o 

C 

*J 

T             «^ 

«> 

AJ                     "^ 

«. 

« 

^ 

T              « 

•■« 

«: 

k 

-4          « 

s? 

** 

/ — ■ 

V  \ 

c 

:3 

■e 

A 

\          »- 

tJ 

•^ 

-1 

/  \ 

\          ">• 

C 

C; 

t! 

«            ^ 

\                      '3 

A. 

». 

« 

^         n 

\                   * 

■^ 

;j 

«* 

*     I  n 

\                    N 

e 

N 

—1 

a        y-\ 

A           ■" 

« 

A 

\J 

f\           •-. 

« 

** 

^ 

e 

^           «i 

o 

o 

* 

k 

<0 

•s 

C 

■•-> 

o 

-■^ 

e 

5 

« 

a 

«3 

o 

^ 

« 

JC 

•M 

J- 

^ 

o 

•*^ 

o 

*■* 

-VJ 

■o 

«c 

V 

K 

e 

to 

O 

♦* 

* 

c 

2f 

o 

* 

•~« 

«J 

d! 

^ 

e» 

•^ 

C 

»; 

%• 

*J 

«. 

>• 

e 

« 

to 

j;v 

5 

3 


4      S 


t 


i 


u 


CO 


a»     06 


CD 


3E 


c     ►^ 


c 

i 

■r 

1 

c 

•** 

I 

k 

, 

t 

1 

«. 

«. 

1 

1 

« 

ft 

*- 

1 

c- 

1 

1 

' 

1 

;; 

t^ 

^ 

sr 

»q 

i;:^ 

«. 

k 

X3 

a 

ft 

k 

••>* 

ft 

e 

K 

■c 

•-* 

t 

t 

•i 

3 

t 

■»* 

< 

ft 

3 

r* 

»" 

«. 

c 

2 

k 

•e 

• 

■-* 

-*- 

«. 

■** 

.».j 

ft 

«? 

--.« 

-^ 

tr 

<« 

^■ 

c: 

c- 

k 

e 

KJ. 

*■.< 

.^.^ 

i 

k 

r: 

« 

*1 

t^ 

^ 

♦. 

^ 

«. 

«; 

t 

e 

.,^ 

r? 

X- 

ft 

c 

ft 

■-* 

C! 

^ 

■-* 

■•i^ 

■a 

k 

£• 

•^ 

-■3 

.  c 

V 

D 

ft 

^'. 

1^ 

"^ 

V 

c 

'J 

f. 

if. 

*• 

■^ 

£* 

^^ 

ri 

#». 

% 

:^ 

k. 

•i. 

vr 

-M 

c 

"^ 

~^ 

2 

•^ 

c 

*^ 

t 

t) 

\ 

-T 

«^ 

's; 

a 

•^ 

•^ 

* 

«o 

Kl 

c 

> 

;^ 

t 

•e 

i^ 

r* 

06 

It 

■•.^ 

« 

V. 

ft. 

k 

•« 

•> 

k 

<t 

*j 

4 

t. 

ft; 

<j 

r* 

* 

■-* 

•V 

tJ 

e-. 

K 

»s; 

<r 

3 

*i 

■»* 

i; 

F 

t; 

k 

♦.i 

ft) 

k 

O 

k 

ft 

* 

«; 

o 

o 

G 

«. 

^ 

■a 

■— 

•— 

ft. 

-•* 

Ir. 

XT 

-• 

c 

ft 

C: 

«f 

••* 

•■* 

*^ 

« 

^>^ 

«w 

«. 

f. 

^^ 

.*j 

O 

k 

•^ 

■a 

e 

e 

-^ 

i; 

«j 

c- 

k 

.f 

c 

V. 

c- 

to 

•w 

ft 

% 

t. 

V* 

::i 

C 

•»» 

C 

e 

<^ 

O 

k 

e 

::? 

u. 

T? 

c 

C 

ts 

tj 

«. 

o 

.« 

«. 

^ 

•^ 

■-* 

<t 

"v, 

ft. 

V, 

2 

« 

ft 

*m 

o 

♦- 

i- 

D 

;* 

>o 

■e 

C 

C 

•M 

c 

k 

It 

•s 

*- 

to 

M 

•», 

c 

6. 

"~^ 

c 

■-J 

ft 

o 

ft. 

c. 

»^ 

•~H 

-^ 

O 

*0 

■^ 

•s 

■c 

-r* 

^ 

C 

■-^ 

-^ 

k 

c. 

■— 

a 

«.. 

k 

C! 

r; 

■e 

c 

o 

«. 

c 

c. 

tl 

•  ~^ 

--* 

X- 

tc 

ft 

1  . 

Q^ 

*> 

c 

e 

■-* 

i* 

is. 

•c 

k 

it 

c. 

o 

t. 

x; 

tt 

t' 

<a 

■c 

*. 

«. 

tc 

o 

<1. 

^ 

■-A 

ts 

*. 

••* 

■»* 

C 

ft 

c: 

a 

h 

u 

«^ 

w 

•-* 

■^ 

^~ 

•o 

k 

to 

•"^ 

c 

^ 

•o 

<0 

<n 

c 

•^ 

»■ 

<; 

k 

«) 

c^ 

ft 

0 

t 

&: 

A 

I 

c" 

«: 

3 

e 

--• 

t 

.*o 

•^ 

ft. 

rj 

3 

»- 

s: 

e. 

^ 

^ 

<a 

v> 

« 

« 

•^ 

--» 

tr. 

C 

c 

k- 

«.> 

;j 

I 

C 

"-1 

k 

«.^ 

c 

■« 

■** 

k 

ft: 

p 

»;> 

c 

t: 

;; 

XT 

k 

«. 

e 

V. 

«.A 

^ 

o 

k 

^_ft 

*«: 

■c 

■*- 

•e 

O 

« 

t 

i^ 

■a 

c 

.c- 

,*» 

a 

ft: 

^ 

i 

3 

t 

•^ 

if. 

r» 

K 

«. 

C-. 

1 

*j 

*, 

o 

t5 

•o 

<: 

« 

--* 

c 

k 

«: 

>-t 

K 

tr. 

k 

*-* 

^- 

to 

-•* 

c 

k 

(C 

tn 

•  ■«* 

<c 

*r 

tj 

2 

■^ 

C 

tc 

<r 

<0 

• 

•** 

M 

C 

Q 

tJ 

t. 

e 

a 

« 

o 

>j 

« 

c 

* 

::f 

«: 

e 

O 

K 

k 

• 

■-* 

^^ 

-*• 

* 

e 

C 

o 

«. 

t5 

« 

•->* 

• 

*« 

r::? 

€ 

ft 

tL 

et 

"-i 

1 

«^ 

<r 

•-* 

2 

0. 

3 

•Q 

•^ 

«^ 

k 

k 

c 

E 

XT 

■** 

« 

o. 

«0 

o 

«> 

■e 

k 

<3 

ft 

*r 

H 

C 

* 

O 

to 

o 

■•^ 

C 

■-* 

~i 

■c 

^ 

* 

N 

-J 

c 

&£ 

c 

*** 

A 

c 

C 

^-1 

*^ 

c 

•prf 

'  ^ 

^j 

k 

3 

;• 

c 

Co 

•••»* 

'-i 

• 

^ 

<> 

'v> 

■*• 

c; 

-^ 

.M 

:j 

k 

C; 

o 

k 

c 

♦J 

^-^ 

:< 

i-- 

« 

V, 

V. 

«. 

^ 

•*; 

« 

•k 

ft 

cr 

*i  J 

k 

«. 

u 

o 

■e 

c 

a 

t.3 

.^ 

5 

iC. 

;:? 

O 

e 

-M 

«. 

♦J 

••« 

■c 

c 

tt 

k 

k 

c 

^ 

c 

*?' 

O 

«j 

■o 

*• 

3 

■M 

•^-. 

c; 

o 

a 

k 

«.» 

k 

«^ 

to 

N 

H 

r. 

Cr. 

o 

Q 

a 

w 

« 

« 

to 

.^ 

«^ 

:r 

«, 

0-. 

^., 

■c 

c; 

u 

c 

«d 

k 

C 

k 

c 

C 

5 

ft. 

c>. 

t* 

c 

R 

CX 

a 

«. 

<s 

t 

— • 

« 

^* 

<l^ 

«. 

ft; 

ft 

k 

c 

ft 

ft. 

ft 

•;3 

to 

« 

CO 

k 

« 

tj 

«: 

1 

« 

^4 

•^ 

».» 

»^ 

r; 

*r 

V, 

*-. 

•  i 

^  1 

« 1 

c>  1 

*  1 

t*  1 

C    1 

• 

^  ! 

tVI 

•■    t 

•^^ 

o 

* 

«i» 

c  f 

^J 

3 

o  r 

C" 

'*^ 

* 

--A 

^->  1 

VJ 

>J 

■^ 

f. 

(0     1 

<-'. 

c 

» 

»^ 

~    \ 

k 

Q, 

O    1 

ft. 

•»• 

*^    1 

<r 

o; 

*^ 

ft 

1 

t^. 

f. 

EDUCATION  AND  THE  STATE 

THE  importance  of  the  dedication  of  the  Rice  Institute 
is  emphasized  by  the  presence  of  so  many  distin- 
guished scientists  from  other  nations  and  by  the  presence  of 
distinguished  educators  of  other  States  of  this  Union.  The 
interest  which  prevails  in  Texas,  and  especially  in  this  city, 
in  the  future  of  this  university,  is  manifested  by  the  assem- 
blage which  is  before  me.  But  of  equal  importance  are  the 
provisions  made  by  Mr.  Rice  to  secure  the  success  of  the 
enterprise  by  placing  it  in  the  hands  of  such  able  trustees, 
who  can  be  relied  upon  to  use  the  funds  to  the  best  advan- 
tage. These  buildings,  so  well  adapted  to  the  work  to  be 
done,  and  especially  the  competent  president  and  his  assis- 
tants selected  to  execute  the  provisions  of  the  will,  give 
additional  assurance  of  the  wise  application  of  the  beneficent 
donation  to  the  education  of  young  men  and  women  of 

Texas. 

The  American  population  in  the  State  of  Texas  revolted 
against  the  Mexican  rule,  and  on  the  second  day  of  March, 
1836,  published  a  declaration  of  independence,  specifying 
the  causes  which  justified  the  act,  one  of  which  was  expressed 
in  this  explicit  paragraph:  "It  has  failed  to  establish  any 
public  system  of  education,  although  possessed  of  almost 
boundless  resources  (the  public  domain),  and  although  it  is 
an  axiom  in  political  science  that  unless  a  people  are  edu- 
cated and  enlightened  it  is  idle  to  expect  the  continuance  of 
civil  liberty,  or  the  capacity  for  self-government.'*  The 
Constitution  which  was  adopted  by  the  people  of  the  Repub- 
lic in  its  General  Provisions,  Section  5,  reads:  "It  shall  be 

pis!] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

the  duty  of  Congress,  as  soon  as  circumstances  will  permit, 
to  provide  by  law  a  general  system  of  education." 

The  Constitution  of  the  State  of  Texas,  adopted  in  1845, 
expressed  the  same  purpose  in  terms  thus:  ''A  general  diffu- 
sion of  knowledge  being  essential  to  the  preservation  of  the 
rights  and  liberties  of  the  people,  it  shall  be  the  duty  of  the 
legislature  of  this  State  to  make  suitable  provision  for  the 
support  and  maintenance  of  public  schools."  That  pro- 
vision was  repeated  in  1866  by  the  convention  which  re- 
formed the  Constitution  of  the  State  so  as  to  conform  to  our 
new  relations  to  the  Federal  Government.  The  Constitution 
of  1876,  now  in  force,  contains  like  provisions,  and  to  secure 
its  enforcement  the  convention  set  apart  certain  classes  of 
lands  and  taxes  for  the  maintenance  of  a  system  of  public 
free  schools.  On  every  appropriate  occasion  the  people  of 
Texas  have  expressed  their  purpose  to  make  ample  pro- 
vision for  the  maintenance  of  an  efficient  system  of  public 
free  schools  in  this  State  for  the  education  of  the  masses. 

Prior  to  the  war  between  the  States,  the  people  were 
dependent  for  the  education  of  their  children  upon  private 
schools  organized  and  supported  by  the  patrons,  each  pay- 
ine  tuition  to  the  teacher.  The  consequence  was  that  those 
children  w^hose  parents  were  unable  to  pay  and  orphans  who 
were  indigent  were  not  provided  for.  The  teachers  of  those 
schools  were  usually  men,  and,  as  a  rule,  were  better  instruc- 
tors than  now  employed  in  the  public  schools  of  the  country 

districts. 

The  purpose  to  inaugurate  free  schools  survived  the  war 
between  the  States,  and  during  the  administration  of  Gov- 
ernor Davis  free  schools  were  organized  to  some  extent,  but 
had  little  success  until  the  adoption  of  the  Constitution  of 
1876;  since  which  time  much  progress  has  been  made  and 
the  public-school  system  is  much  improved,  especially  in  the 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

cities  and  towns.  The  State  University,  the  Agricultural 
and  Mechanical  College,  and  a  number  of  colleges  of  good 
capacity  supported  by  the  State  afford  to  students  good  op- 
portunity for  higher  education.  Austin  College,  Baylor 
University,  and  the  universities  of  the  different  churches 
constitute  a  valuable  auxiliary  educational  force  with  which 
Rice  Institute  will  take  its  place  as  a  part  of  our  system  of 
higher  education,  and  no  doubt  the  Institute  will  be  a  credit- 
able accession  thereto. 

I  have  briefly  reviewed  the  history  of  educational  institu- 
tions in  Texas  to  point  attention  to  the  fact  that  public  senti- 
ment is  ready  to  welcome  the  Institute,  and  the  provision  for 
education  in  this  State,  public  and  private,  is  in  condition  to 
promote  success. 

I  am  not  informed  as  to  the  date  of  Mr.  Rice's  settlement 
in  Texas,  but  it  was  in  the  life  of  the  Republic,  and  he  im- 
bibed the  spirit  which  prompted  the  declaration  in  favor  of 
education,  above  quoted,  and  which  survived  the  years  of  an 
active  life  and  prompted  the  provision  made  for  this  Insti- 
tute. 

Mr.  Rice  was  a  young  man,  with  no  capital  except  his 
manhood  and  his  intellectual  and  moral  endowments,  when 
he  became  a  citizen  of  the  Republic,  and  by  his  industry  and 
economy  acquired  a  large  fortune.  He  held  public  office  and 
participated  in  the  public  enterprises  of  the  community  in 
which  he  lived  up  to  the  date  of  disqualification  by  infirmity. 
He  was  prominent  in  the  upbuilding  of  the  City  of  Houston, 
and  in  the  construction  and  operation  of  railroads  by  which 
the  whole  State  was  benefited.  In  fact,  he  was  an  important 
factor  in  the  development  of  Texas,  and  by  this  donation 
expressed  his  appreciation  of  the  favors  he  had  received  and 
the  advantages  offered  to  him,  which  is  creditable  to  his 
memory. 

["73 


■'■'^H 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

In  order  to  comprehend  the  full  value  of  the  endowment 
of  this  institution  it  is  necessary  to  look  to  the  condition  of 
the  State  and  the  needs  of  the  people  who  will  be  indirectly 
benefited  by  its  work;  for  it  is  true  that  the  greatest  value 
will  accrue  from  the  lives  and  labors  of  those  who  may  be 
educated  here,  and  will  be  enjoyed  by  many  who  will  not 
recognize  the  fact  that  it  is  traceable  to  this  university,  but 
that  fact  does  not  detract  from  its  importance. 

If  the  benefits  to  be  derived  from  this  institution  be  con- 
fined to  those  persons  who  may  receive  instruction  here  and 
to  the  financial  benefits  accruing  to  the  City  of  Houston,  Rice 
Institute  would  be  worth  all  that  it  will  cost.  But,  in  fact, 
such  individual  and  local  benefits  will  be  a  small  part  of  the 
total  good  that  will  accrue  to  the  people  of  Texas  from  this 
liberal  donation.  The  Institute  is  located  at  Houston,  but  it 
belongs  to  the  whole  State.  The  arts  and  sciences  are  made 
special  subjects  of  instruction,  and  they  who  acquire  the 
knowledge  of  these  branches  of  learning  will  go  forth  to  put 
into  practical  use  the  knowledge  thus  obtained,  with  a  pur- 
pose to  acquire  fortune  or  fame  for  themselves,  but  such 
persons  will  necessarily  have  good  or  evil  influence  upon 
others.  "No  man  liveth  to  himself."  Through  its  students 
every  institution  of  learning  exerts  a  power  for  good  or  evil 
upon  society,  therefore  the  instruction  given  and  the  char- 
acter of  the  institution  itself  are  of  importance  to  the  public. 

The  greatest  benefit  derived  from  such  teaching  is  the 
relief  that  comes  to  the  unlearned  masses,  through  the  inven- 
tion of  new  methods  of  performing  their  labor,  relieving  the 
laborer  of  the  tax  on  his  physical  strength  and  increasing  the 
return  derived  from  it.  The  great  progress  made  in  the 
different  industries  has  had  its  origin  and  consummation  in 
the  scientific  knowledge  of  men,  students  of  natural  laws. 

Bear  with  me  if  I  am  tedious,  but  I  can  better  present  by 


1 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

illustration  the  fact  that  the  greatest  benefit  of  such  training 
as  will  be  received  in  this  institution  does  not  consist  in  the 
money  accumulated  or  the  fame  won  by  the  use  of  training 
received  in  such  an  institution  as  this.  The  history  of  the 
United  States,  and  especially  of  Texas,  shows  a  wonderful 
development  and  great  amelioration  of  the  drastic  methods 
that  taxed  the  energies  of  the  pioneers,  which  have  been 
effected  by  discoveries  of  methods  of  labor  and  the  applica- 
tion of  new  powers. 

To  illustrate.  Father  removed  from  Jasper  County, 
Georgia,  to  Washington  County,  Texas,  in  1846.  We  saw 
our  first  railroad  track  and  train  at  Atlanta,  Georgia,  and 
did  not  cross  another  railroad  on  our  journey,  which  was 
made  in  wagons  and  carriages  drawn  by  horses  and  mules, 
consuming  three  months'  time.  There  was  then  no  railroad 
in  Texas.  In  1851  father  was  farming  on  Mill  Creek,  west 
of  Brenham,  in  Washington  County.  iVll  family  supplies 
were  enormously  high:  flour  was  sold  at  fifteen  dollars  per 
barrel,  and  other  things  in  proportion.  We  usually  had 
biscuit  for  breakfast  on  Sunday  mornings  and  at  the  preach- 
er's visit.  All  merchandise  was  so  exorbitant  that  the  people 
were  compelled  to  deny  themselves  such  things  as  were  not 
absolute  necessities.  The  produce  of  the  farm  being  con- 
veyed to  market  on  wagons,  and  their  supplies  being  hauled 
by  like  conveyance  to  the  interior  towns,  the  consumers 
necessarily  paid  heavy  freight  charges.  The  construction  of 
railroads  has  worked  such  changes  that  it  would  be  difficult 
for  one  who  has  had  no  experience  of  those  conditions  to 
realize  the  great  benefit  that  railroads  have  brought  to  the 

masses. 

In  my  boyhood  I  saw  a  man  lying  near  a  tree  appearing 
to  be  dead.  The  tree  had  been  struck  by  lightning  and  the 
man  had  been  shocked.     He  had  taken  refuge  under  the 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

tree  from  a  rain-storm.  In  that  day  electricity  was  known  to 
the  people  only  as  a  dangerous  element  beyond  human  con- 
trol. It  has  by  scientists  been  converted  into  an  important 
servant,  doing  various  important  things,  as  the  telegraph, 
which  bears  the  messages  of  men  in  all  kinds  of  business, 
also  the  telephone,  which  without  regard  to  distance  enables 
us,  for  business  or  pleasure,  to  converse  as  if  standing  face 
to  face. 

In  the  days  of  the  best  mail  service  a  letter  sent  to  one  in 
New  York  would  not  be  delivered  and  answer  returned  for 
many  days,  perhaps  weeks.  The  telegraph  wire  now  trans- 
mits such  message  and  brings  a  reply  in  a  few  hours.  The 
telephone  carries  the  voice,  and  enables  one  to  speak  to  an- 
other hundreds  of  miles  distant,  and  in  a  known  tone  of 
voice  to  receive  a  reply  as  if  the  parties  were  in  the  same 
room.  The  wireless  telegraph  seeks  the  vessel  in  distress, 
or  person  whose  locality  is  unknown,  with  messages  of  relief. 
Electricity  has  in  many  ways  proved  to  be  a  very  potent 
and  valuable  servant  to  man.  My  proposition  is,  that  the 
relief  to  the  masses  in  these  minor  matters,  each  insig- 
nificant, has  conferred  more  important  benefits  in  the  aggre- 
gate than  the  acquisition  of  much  wealth  by  the  inventor  or 
persons  who  put  those  inventions  and  discoveries  into  oper- 
ation. 

The  wonderful  development  of  the  natural  resources  of 
nature  has  been  accomplished  through  scientific  knowledge 
by  persons  trained  in  the  sciences,  and  is  the  fruit  of  training 
received  in  such  institutions  as  this.  Therefore,  I  repeat 
that  the  relief  which  is  conferred  upon  the  laborers  in  mak- 
ing less  burdensome  their  tasks,  and  the  conveniences  which 
have  through  this  source  come  to  men  of  business  as  the 
fruits  of  learning  imparted  to  students  by  such  institutions, 
are  of  paramount  importance. 

1:1203 


m 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Within  the  last  century  both  steam  and  electricity  have,  by 
scientific  knowledge,  been  converted  into  the  greatest  pow- 
ers the  world  has  ever  known.  In  fact,  those  powers  now 
move  the  machinery  of  the  world.  I  need  not  specify  the 
particulars  of  their  uses.  Without  them  stagnation  would 
reign  in  every  department  of  life. 

I  have  given  but  a  very  limited  statement  of  the  advance- 
ment in  all  grades  of  life  and  all  classes  of  business,  but  it 
will  sufiice  as  a  basis  for  my  conclusion,  that  the  develop- 
ment and  progress  of  the  world  has  been  the  result  of  sci- 
entific knowledge,  whereby  the  laws  of  nature  have  been 
utilized  for  the  benefit  of  man. 

The  training  of  men  and  women  mentally  or  morally  is 
not  limited  in  benefit  or  injury  to  the  individual  trained,  but 
each  student  who  may  be  educated  in  this  institution  will 
affect  the  public  for  good  or  evil.  If  the  training  in  the  arts 
and  sciences  produces  an  inventor  of  machinery  or  one  who 
applies  to  practical  service  an  invention  by  another,  it  will 
be  a  benefit  to  all  whose  labors  may  be  made  lighter  or 
whose  earning  power  may  be  increased  thereby. 

I  have  used  the  illustrations  of  the  application  of  steam 
and  electricity  to  the  service  of  man  as  a  basis  for  my  con- 
cluding proposition,  that  the  development  of  the  resources 
of  nature  and  the  advancement  of  mankind  intellectually 
and  morally  have  been  due  mainly  to  the  discoveries  by 
scientists  of  the  laws  of  nature,  whereby  the  labors  of  men 
have  been  relieved  of  much  hardship,  their  ability  to  produce 
enlarged,  and  the  conveniences  of  life  greatly  increased.  If 
we  consider  the  labors  of  the  farmer,  the  new  machinery 
multiplies  the  powers  of  the  man  and  relieves  the  laborer  of 
the  great  hardships  which  formerly  attended  the  work.  In 
every  department  of  life  we  find  the  contrast  between  those 
who  avail  themselves  of  the  discoveries  of  new  methods  and 


ii 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

those  who  still  are  unable  to  secure  the  benefits,  from  which 
we  get  some  conception  of  what  scientific  discoveries  have 
done  for  men. 

The  desire  for  higher  education  is  increasing,  and  the  uni- 
versities and  colleges  of  the  State  and  of  the  Christian 
denominations  are  overtaxed.  There  is  room  for  this  insti- 
tution, and  ample  work  for  it  to  do.  Its  field  of  usefulness 
is  commensurate  with  the  growing  State,  and  it  will  be  a 
Texas  University  dispensing  to  our  ambitious  young  men 
and  women  the  benefits  of  Mr.  Rice's  bounty.  The  people 
of  the  entire  State  welcome  Rice  Institute  as  more  than  a 
local  school,  and  I  assume  to  say  for  them,  "God  speed  Rice 
Institute  in  its  noble  work!'* 

Thomas  Jefferson  Brown. 


-.,               /^ 

'•^f/u,.f/  ^> 

-  '--V  ^'d'  *•  v^   / 

/ir    ^/yy 

■''■'•"  f/fV.J'A'''-'^//'/^ 

/ 

■    /     / 

rf'f/ 


^A^ 


V/' 


"^^'9  /' 


■''■■"/ //it -f* 


/ 


../ 


''.  /f/J^^ 


'■/■■ 


rf  /v/  /         'W/fr//'<r/fg^ff/.  ^r'f/t 


ff 


1 1 


\_^^^1 


thos 


ICE  INSTITUTE 

to  secure  the  benefits,  from  which 
,v;ntiric  di^'^'^^-^ries  have 

'    'r?r;it'?nn  ?«;  inrrf  ri'^tnfr,  rind  the  uni- 

orare  ano  ox  tae  Christian 

Therr  ^om  for  this  insti- 

■         -o  <'f  usefulness 

nd  It  will  be  a 

■It-jonc  young  men 

The  people 

*  p  ^«  r»     ^ 

■'  kv/vVN. 


// 


r^,j/y/y,/y  yy,     //r  <,,Aj/,rryyyyj  <^y'yrry,y/yy,,yy,/j  //yr//r,,r 
/V///  yy.ryy/r.yy  //,  yy.yyyyy^yy,^ry/yry,  yy  ,/,  yyy./yy/yy,,/ ,rry/ 
J/ry/,yy///yy///r  .^/yyy.  yy  f^U/yy  ^Z // // ,0y ry // yy, 
.  ^yy.jyy<y^/ rj yy y/yfyyyrr,,/yy    //yf///y ^yf,,,r/rr/,y ,,j  y  //, 
.^y^.>/y/yy/yy^y7/K/^ryy/y,,   //,    //y,'<y,y^/  ,y,,y/  4/^,,^,/ 
^^rr,/  </r.,y,^y,^y//,^  //,   /y,/y     Wy//yyyyy,,     //yyyj/ 1^/yr/ 


n^f  /Ar/yW/yy/rry/  yy .  Vyy^ryryryy,  0^jM,/yyy,^ry  4ffhy 
fy<ry.    '^  ^/jy^^yy^,-,   yrjjyry^y    //^  ^^yyjyr/yy,/ yyy,r/ J'yy.j/yfj 
<y  //yy^  y/^J<y<   ^r  /y  yy  jyy.fyy  yy,  yyy^Y  y/yf.yfy,  //,y;A, 


Yyyyj  yyyfyf^yyy/^    ///y 


<y^y    '  ^ /)  yy^yy^yj  y^jnyy^    f 

<y    //fO'   y/yJ</<    /y  /y  yy    jyy*,',,.     „,    ,, 

<r.^f//r,/yjyy'yyy^  //yO/,r/y  yy  yy, ...../,.,,,     ,y,r 

^yA/yy     y/yyfj/yy,  ^ ^'^y''/ /rJjy//y  JyyA/.yyVyy,  yr/y/.y.yy //y 
^/yfj/y/yy/y  /y    /yyyyy.y  ^y  yyy,/yy  y  yyyj^yyryy/yry,  yyy,f/y.^    Jyy^y, 

f^^yf       //yyy  f/ yyyyyy  yyr/  //y yyyyy,y/ryrj  yy/y^y/ /.^  "//^  ^y/ 

.'ry..ryy,yyy  yy  /y//yy,j  jyy.,,yy   yyy,y/yy,y  //yy/ y,y/ ^,,  Y  //y 

Jyyy/Afryj//rf///y    Jyy/yyy.  y.^rry /y /y^^ /,^  yAy,y/y/^/,,j  , 


.     J^yr     y//y^fyy/    / yy^y/fy/yyyy/ 
0 y/y/^yy    //y yyy<j/ 

/.y      ^^/^y^yy/^  //<f/fy/yryyrryfy/.^/r//ry 


>^«-< 


•^ 


■'^X-C^-»^ 


•-Kk 


V.   • 


^t^J'</rj, 


'^ry'f/'„/-f, 


/ 


THE  CHURCH  AND  EDUCATION 

IT  is  a  great  privilege  to  be  permitted  to  participate  in  the 
exercises  attendant  upon  the  opening  of  this  great  Insti- 
tution. For,  as  we  survey  these  noble  buildings  and  recall 
the  story  of  the  Institute;  trying  to  realize  the  extraordinary 
and  almost  unparalleled  efforts  of  the  President  and  Board 
of  Trustees  to  study  and  profit  by  the  history  and  results  of 
educational  enterprise  and  advance  in  every  civilized  coun- 
try; the  broad  and  lofty  ideals,  to  which  the  work  of  the 
institute  has  been  thoughtfully  and  deliberately  consecrated, 
and  the  magnificent  financial  endowment  at  their  disposal  to 
reduce  these  ideals  to  practice;— we  must  indeed  feel  that 
we  are  here  to-day  witnessing  and  creating  an  epoch  in  the 
history  of  education,  not  only  for  the  people  of  Texas,  but 
for  all  Americans.  I  can  only  say  that  I  pray  God  that  the 
future  usefulness  of  this  Institute  may  be  commensurate  with 
the  brave  and  wise  and  munificent  provision  of  its  Founder; 
and  that  in  the  years  and  decades  and  centuries  to  come  the 
name  and  memory  of  William  Marsh  Rice  may  be  called 
blessed  by  the  thousands  of  good  American  citizens  who 
shall  have  been  the  beneficiaries  of  his  princely  generosity. 

I  have  come  here,  at  the  invitation  of  President  Lovett 
and  the  Board  of  Trustees,  not  merely  as  a  private  citizen, 
not  as  the  representative  of  the  University  of  the  South,  of 
which  I  happen  to  be  Chancellor,  but  as  a  representative  of 
the  Christian  Church,  to  speak  on  the  general  subject  of  the 
Church  and  Education. 

The  two  words  are  not  accidentally  associated.  From  the 
beginning  Christianity  has  been  an  educational  religion,  and 
from  the  beginning  has  invited  and  encouraged  intellectual 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

inquiry.     Its  first  great  missionary  was  a  man  of  learning,  a 
brilliant  student  of  the  Rabbinic  Schools,  the  Apostle  Paul; 
and  St.  Luke  in  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles  praises  the  people 
of  Beroea  because  they  were  more  noble  {eugenesteroi)  and 
showed   their   nobility   by   listening  to   new  opinions   with 
readiness  of  mind,  taking  the  trouble  to  examine  whether 
they  were  consistent  with  what  they  knew  to  be  the  truth. 
As  we   read   the   history  to-day  we   can   understand   why 
through  such  slow  processes  of  preparation  this  innate  spirit 
of  liberty  had  to  express  itself.    The  early  Christian  Church 
found  the  classic  literature  of  Greece  and  Rome  filled  with 
fables  and  deceits,  and  foul  stories  of  the  gods,  which  were 
calculated  to  injure  both  the  faith  and  morals  of  a  simple 
people,  too  unsophisticated  to  read  them  merely  as  litera- 
ture;  and  therefore  there   appears  very  early  a  growing 
prejudice  against  pagan  learning.     But  in  spite  of  this  fact, 
and  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  persecution  of  Christians  up 
to  the  beginning  of  the  fourth  century  bred  in  them  a  dis- 
trust and  dislike  of  heathen  books,— yes,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  the  moral  and  social  riot  which  accompanied  the  decline 
of  Roman  civilization  created  a  reaction  in  favor  of  Chris- 
tian asceticism  and  monasticism,  which  declared  its  hatred 
of  the  common  world  and  everything  connected  with  it,— 
its  culture  and  refinement  and  learning,  as  well  as  its  false- 
ness,  its  cowardice,   and  its   degradation,  — in  spite  of  all 
these  temptations,  these  propulsions  towards  barbarism,  the 
Christian  Church  became  and  continued  to  be  the  home  and 
nursery  of  intellectual  culture. 

There  is  no  name,  for  example,  of  any  race  or  people  in 
the  third  century  comparable  to  that  of  Origen,  the  great 
Christian  critic,  the  great  Christian  scholar;  and  the  intel- 
lectual power  and  activity  of  Chrysostom  and  Basil  and  the 
Gregories,  and  Jeromie  and  Augustine  in  the  fourth  and  fifth 

1:124:] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

centuries,  — all  of  them  Christian  teachers,— would  shed 
glory  upon  the  history  of  any  nation  in  any  age.  It  is  the 
fashion,  I  know,  with  unfriendly  critics  to  emphasize  the 
ignorance  and  lack  of  education  in  the  so-called  dark  ages: 
but  even  then  there  were  many  instances  of  Christian  enthu- 
siasm for  liberal  learning.  The  Benedictine  monasteries 
were  the  storehouses  of  ancient  manuscripts.  The  schools 
of  Charlemagne,  under  the  great  Christian  teacher  Alculn, 
were  undoubtedly  the  foundation  of  the  later  university  sys- 
tem of  Europe.  The  British  and  Irish  missionaries,  shel- 
tered from  the  wars  that  desolated  continental  Europe,  were 
men  of  wide  culture  and  enthusiasm  for  education.  King 
Alfred  the  Great  in  England,  a  true  scholar  and  the  father 
of  English  prose,  got  his  learning  from  the  Church's  schools. 
Let  us  frankly  admit  all  that  the  critics  say:  that  the  epis- 
copal or  cathedral  schools,  and  the  monastic  schools,  which 
represented  practically  all  the  educational  effort  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages,  fell  far  short  of  popularizing  real  education  or 
love  of  learning;  and  that  the  fact  that  there  were  in  every 
generation  some  teachers  and  some  schools  which  had  a 
broader  outlook  does  not  redeem  the  ninth  and  tenth  cen- 
turies, under  the  sway  of  the  Christian  Church,  from  com- 
parative ignorance  and  barbarism.  Yet,  after  all,  it  was  the 
Christian  Church  which  in  those  stormy  and  tempestuous 
times  preserved  the  tradition  and  the  materials  of  know- 
ledge. If  ignorance  was  wide-spread,  there  was  good  reason 
for  it.  The  Church  wrought  and  fought  for  four  hundred 
years  to  justify  and  establish  a  new^  ethical  ideal;  and  that  is 
worth  more  to  us  to-day  than  any  technical  learning.  Even 
in  our  time,  when  we  study  conditions  in  our  cities  we  are 
obliged  to  admit  that  there  are  worse  things  than  illiteracy. 
The  Church  was  fighting  the  gigantic  enemies  of  human 
civilization,  and  it  was  no  wonder  that  she  postponed  her 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

battle  with  mere  ignorance.  That  was  comparatively  a 
small  thing.  In  the  sixth  and  seventh  centuries  the  barbarian 
hordes  were  pouring  into  southern  Europe,  and  the  only 
organized  resistance  to  them  was  the  Christian  Church.  As 
Guizot  says,  it  was  not  merely  Christianity  as  an  influence,  a 
doctrine,  that  saved  Europe :  it  was  Christianity  as  a  Church, 
as  an  institution,  that  prevented  human  civilization  being  set 
back  four  hundred  years.  In  the  ninth  and  tenth  centuries 
the  Normans  were  invading  Europe,  the  Danes  were 
descending  on  England,  the  Saracens  were  threatening 
Christendom,  and  organized  human  society  was  fighting  for 
its  life.  Elementary  morality,  the  ten  commandments  and 
the  Lord's  Prayer,  were  of  infinitely  more  importance  than 
the  study  of  Homer  and  Virgil,  or  even  of  the  names  of  the 
birds,  the  fishes,  and  the  trees. 

And  when  peace  at  last  did  come  for  a  season.  It  was  out 
of  a  Christian  school  that  men  like  Anselm  went  forth  to 
assert  the  claims  of  reason  and  arouse  the  higher  intellect  of 
Europe  to  activity.  With  the  age  of  Anselm,  and  largely 
through  the  work  and  thought  of  Anselm,  archbishop  of 
Canterbury  in  the  year  iioo,  the  historians  of  educational 
advance  place  the  rise  of  universities  and  the  beginning  of 
that  enthusiasm  for  knowledge  which  we  commemorate  to- 
day. As  one  of  the  modern  experts  on  the  history  of  educa- 
tion. Dr.  Laurie,  says:  *The  universities  may  be  regarded 
as  the  natural  development  of  the  cathedral  and  monastery 
schools."  We  know  anyhow  that  the  Church  is  the  real 
founder  of  the  Universities  of  Paris  and  Bologna  and 
Prague  and  Oxford  and  Cambridge;  and  in  more  recent 
times  the  same  may  be  said  of  the  leading  universities  of  the 
United  States.  There  are  no  words  strong  enough  to  ex- 
press the  debt  which  liberal  learning  and  higher  education 
owe  to  the  Christian  Church.     It  was  the  Great  Head  of 

1:1263 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

the  Church  Who  said:  *Te  shall  know  the  Truth,  and  the 
Truth  shall  make  you  free" ;  and  men  like  Agassiz  and  Ro- 
manes and  Pasteur  and  Lord  Kelvin  have  splendidly  dem- 
onstrated that  the  greatest  triumphs  of  the  human  mind,  in 
scientific  discovery  and  research,  have  been  inspired  by  loy- 
alty to  the  Divine  Master,  Jesus  Christ. 

Every  day  I  live  I  am  more  and  more  convinced  that  the 
true  incentive  and  justification  of  scientific  effort  to  learn  the 
secrets  of  this  world  in  which  we  find  ourselves  is  the  fact 
of  our  relation  of  kinship  to  the  good  God,  Who  made  and 
sustains  It  all,  a  relation  which  was  revealed  and  certified  to 
us  by  the  Incarnation. 

And  this  Is  why  Christianity  brought  with  it  a  new  educa- 
tional Impulse  to  the  world.  It  introduced  Into  the  life  of 
our  race  new  and  fruitful  ideas,  which,  working  slowly  per- 
haps as  we  count  time,  but  surely,  have  created  whatever  is 
best  in  our  modern  civilization.  It  deepened  the  sense  of 
brotherhood,  gave  it  a  wider  meaning  and  a  Divine  sanction. 
At  the  same  time  it  developed  and  emphasized  the  personal 
freedom  and  the  personal  responsibility  of  the  individual 
man  and  woman,  by  teaching  them  that  they  are  in  a  true 
sense  children  of  God,  born  of  God  and  destined  to  return 
to  God.  Yes,  It  wove  the  hope  of  Immortality  Into  the  com- 
mon thought  of  daily  life,  and  justified  higher  learning  and 
research  for  their  own  sakes,  by  declaring  that  every  bit  of 
progress  that  man  makes  In  knowledge  and  character  has 
value  and  significance  beyond  time  and  forever. 

Christianity  taught  the  worth  and  Importance  of  the  in- 
dividual, the  necessity  of  his  effort  for  self-development  and 
self-expression,  as  it  had  never  been  taught  before :  but  It  also 
emphasized  the  purpose  and  meaning  of  this  self-develop- 
ment as  increase  of  efficiency  for  service — service  to  God  and 
to  our  fellow  men.    And  thus  It  Invited  and  challenged  the 


m 


^ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

world  to  the  realization  of  an  ideal  of  eternal  value,  an  ideal 
which  a  thousand  thousand  years  of  educational  experiment 
will  not  exhaust  or  overpass,  an  ideal  which  consecrates  all 
man's  intellectual  effort,  justifies  all  his  unwearied  search  for 
knowledge,  and  holds  before  him  an  ever-vanishing  goal  of 
perpetual  pursuit;  and  that  Christian  ideal  is  the  develop- 
ment of  the  utmost  efficiency,  physical,  mental,  spiritual,  in 
every  individual  man,  woman,  and  child,  for  the  sake  of 
mutual  service  in  the  Kingdom  of  God. 

I  have  ventured  upon  this  brief  and  imperfect  sketch  of 
the  historical  attitude  of  the  Christian  Church  towards  edu- 
cation in  its  intellectual  aspect,  first  of  all  because  not  a  few 
writers  and  speakers,  prejudiced  by  superficial  accounts  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  and  obsessed  with  the  importance  of  mere 
mental  development,  have  done  injustice  to  the  Church,  not 
caring  to  consider  that  it  was  the  Church's  moral  conquest 
of  barbarism  that  created  the  atmosphere  and  environment 
which  enabled  modern  physical  science  to  begin  its  work. 

IFho  loves  not  knowledge?    TFho  shall  rail 
Against  her  beauty?    Who  shall  fix 
Her  pillars?    Let  her  work  prevail. 

But  what  is  she,  cut  of  from  love  and  faith, 

But  some  wild  Pallas  of  the  brain 

Of  demons,  fiery  hot  to  burst 

All  barriers  in  her  onward  race 

For  power?    Let  her  know  her  place: 

She  is  the  second,  not  the  first. 

But  secondly,  I  have  insisted  upon  the  Church's  ideal  at 
the  opening  of  a  great  institution  like  this,  because  I  want  to 


-JlOC^^ 


ALL"  ISTrrUTO  RICE 

QLESTA 

REALE  ACCADEMIA  DELLE  SCIENZE 
DELL'  ISTITUTO  DI  BOLOGNA 

NON  POTENDO 
COLL'  INTERVENTO  1)1  TALLNO  DEI  I'ROPRI  ACCADI^MICl 

FORCE 

COLLE  PRESENTI  PAROLE 

DA  QUESTA  MATERNA  SEDE  Dl  STl  DI 

VOTl  ED  ALGURIl 

D'  IMZIO  E:  PEREN.NE  \1TA 

PER  FIORIMENTO  E  \IGORiA 

PER  BENEFIfO  OXORE 

I  PlO  FER\"ID1  E  AETEITl  OSl 

I  PIU  EAISTI  E  FEXICI 


_.j^  ;'?>?;: 


Bologna.  24  Settembre  1912. 


m 


'■•^#>. 


>'  .'*r. 


'J  ^ir  '^'i     "I  II   PrESIDENTE 


BOOK  ( 
tils  audience  ' 


^ENINH 
riition  of  the 


;    e  Instit-  ast,  we  hope,   fo 

•  ided  that  the  American  reoul-  -  to 

cverencc  zLiu^ir.  luuiin  lucdm  .rtiiie 

V  of  manhood  and  vvomanhoo 
,.cnt  sec  "'-      ^'  '■^e  rr^t  cad  :. 
elop  men  and  ivoirien,  and  not  to  n: 
\  -mnrt  mnr  h.*  <>n  frained  as  to  heccr;'^    i  verv"  «uc- 
.  rnacuiae  ror  maiviag  moiiey,  or  a  *veen-.         i  looi    ^r 

'  use  !n  cvploring  and  producincr  mr^tcr;  d.  ; 

,;  p.uduvis  uf  the  schooi:i  v.! t  ^  ;^*;w,.,o 

■■^t  husbands  and  fathers. 

'irse  1  rc^'i/p  that  if  life  fnr  ?  r^ne  of  ;:«  r 

'make  gi>ud,"  as  the  phrase  goe^,  !or  o: 
/etting  what  comfort  and  ea^e  and  K  c?n 

itort  and  suuggic  iii  rhe  -^ 
of  whatever  social. 

Dnduce  t 
:  t  and  pragni. 
f'jfijre,  or  i?i*-erest 

Jic,  or  the  happiness  or  niiscr 

(oine  after  us; — I  realize  that  it 
'^  ?n  of  course  the  measure  of  "i 
;!!  hke  this  is  the  amount  in  dollars  u 
r^nrc  cV^'tII  Kp  trained   ^^t  necessanK*  tn  p-im 

r  )  get,  to  acquire,  to  -,    n. 
"  I  have  not  so  understood  the  plan  and  scope  of  this 

-Cute.  '  '  ''^^  ideals  and  hopes  rf  *-hr*  rp,-^  v^      ,..c  uii  i^i 
of  Administration  and  compose  acuities. 

V    'his    Institute    Stand*^    ^^r    Ul.yh,  . -rf-r   fhJnvT;: 

lere  materialism  and  commerciaJisr         Vnij: 
■ii'^t  be  conducted  according?  to  the  most  approveo 


which  its 
!"  deserve, 


d 


AL 


\rr\ 
M;  ISTtTUTU  Ul  BOIJ 


i: 


ro  i)i 


vU..Ai>bM!i  1 


mRi£ 


T!  pw.ni  n 

MiJh  lit  MIDI 
.LKll 


D 

\Tr\ 

PER  1 

LA 

pci;  r*r\'r.r:u-, 

ros 

rhUti 


II  PBaSCtMBTTE 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

plead  with  this  audience  for  a  recognition  of  the  claims  of 
patriotism. 

The  Rice  Institute  will  last,  we  hope,  for  centuries  to 
come,  provided  that  the  American  people  continue  to  main- 
tain and  reverence  those  moral  ideals  of  life  which  create 
the  quality  of  manhood  and  womanhood  that  makes  free 
government  secure.  For  the  true  end  and  aim  of  education 
is  to  develop  men  and  women,  and  not  to  make  machines  or 
tools.  A  man  may  be  so  trained  as  to  become  a  very  suc- 
cessful machine  for  making  money,  or  a  keen-edged  tool  for 
others  to  use  in  exploring  and  producing  material  wealth; 
but  such  products  of  the  schools  are  very  often  poor  citizens, 
and  worse  husbands  and  fathers. 

Of  course  I  realize  that  if  life  for  each  one  of  us  means 
simply  to  ^*make  good,'*  as  the  phrase  goes,  for  our  genera- 
tion, getting  what  comfort  and  ease  and  luxury  we  can  by 
plan  and  effort  and  struggle  in  the  present  time;  taking  ad- 
vantage of  whatever  social,  commercial,  or  political  condi- 
tion may  conduce  to  our  individual  advantage;  opportunists 
in  conduct  and  pragmatists  in  philosophy;  having  no  thought 
for  the  future,  or  Interest  in  the  success  or  failure  of  the 
Republic,  or  the  happiness  or  misery  of  the  generations  that 
are  to  come  after  us;— I  realize  that  if  this  be  our  life's  phi- 
losophy, then  of  course  the  measure  of  the  value  of  an  insti- 
tution like  this  Is  the  amount  in  dollars  and  cents  which  its 
students  shall  be  trained,  not  necessarily  to  earn  or  deserve, 
but  to  get,  to  acquire,  to  gain. 

But  I  have  not  so  understood  the  plan  and  scope  of  this 
Institute,  or  the  ideals  and  hopes  of  the  men  who  are  on  Its 
Board  of  Administration  and  compose  Its  Faculties. 

Surely  this  Institute  stands  for  higher  and  better  things 
than  mere  materialism  and  commercialism.  While,  Indeed, 
It  must  be  conducted  according  to  the  most  approv^ed  prlnci- 

1:129] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

pies  of  scientific  method  and  theory  in  order  to  promote  the 
practical  efficiency  of  its  students  from  every  section,  yet  it 
will,  we  hope,  also  give  room  and  encouragement  to  that 
loftier  human  aspiration  which  we  call  liberal  culture,  and 
strive  to  create  and  nurture  that  enthusiasm  for  real  learn- 
ing which  has  made  the  finest  and  truest  progress  of  our 
race. 

For  I  hold  that  it  is  not  the  men  of  action,  whether  on 
battle-fields  or  in  cabinets  or  in  commercial  business,  that 
have  most  truly  helped  the  world.     Nor  is  it  the  men  who 
have  invented  new  tools  and  new  machinery,  and  discovered 
new  methods  of  utilizing  Nature's  forces  for  man's  use  and 
comfort,  and  for  the  increase  of  material  wealth,  who  have 
been  the  foremost  benefactors  of  mankind.     Rather  it  is  the 
men  who  with  moral  heroism  and  unwearied  love  of  truth 
for  its  own  sake,  asking  no  recognition  and  no  reward,  have 
tried  to  create  through  schools  and  colleges  and  universities 
an  atmosphere,  a  tone,  a  Zeitgeist,  that  will  inspire  men,  in 
spite  of  themselves,  to  noble  aims;  aye,  it  is  these  men  who 
by  their  very  retirement  and  isolation  have  escaped  the  con- 
tagion of  current  fashions  of  thought,  whose  humility  is  the 
result  of  long  experience  of  the  difficulty  of  arriving  at  abso- 
lute certainty  on  any  subject,  and  who  by  patience  and  faith 
have  found  for  themselves,  and  are  working  to  protect  and 
defend,  a  height,  whence  he  who  will  may  attain  their  vision 
—the  vision  of  a  larger  world  and  a  greater  life. 

This  is  the  true  measure  of  the  scholar;  this  is  the  justifi- 
cation of  the  University.  And  this  means  religion;  that  a 
man  is  not  a  mere  brute,  nor  a  unit  of  sensation,  but  the  child 
of  God,  akin  to  God,  with  capacity  for  infinite  happiness  and 
responsibility  for  infinite  progress.  And  in  this  definition  of 
education  all  true  learning,  all  advance  in  real  knowledge, 
has  a  religious  value.     The  search  for  truth  is  itself  a  re- 


I 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

ligious  act;  and  the  men  who,  honestly  and  sincerely,  are 
studying  and  teaching  Nature's  secrets  are  the  servants  of 
the  Most  High  God. 

Let  us  accept  this  as  the  Divine  Message,  the  Divine  Chal- 
lenge, and  the  assurance  of  the  Divine  Blessing  to  this  Insti- 
tute. Truly  it  may  be  said  of  it,  that  it  has  been  founded  as 
securely  as  the  wit  and  knowledge  of  man  can  plan,  with 
financial  support  assured  to  it,  in  extent  almost  unequaled  in 
the  history  of  educational  institutions.  If  only  it  will  take 
its  stand  for  God  and  His  righteousness,  then  indeed  may 
we  apply  to  it  the  words  of  the  Prophet : 

'*I  will  lay  thy  stones  with  fair  colors,  and  lay  thy  founda- 
tions with  sapphires.  And  I  will  make  thy  windows  of 
agates,  and  thy  gates  of  carbuncles,  and  all  thy  borders  of 
pleasant  stones.  And  all  thy  children  shall  be  taught  of  the 
Lord,  and  great  shall  be  the  peace  of  thy  children." 

Thomas  Frank  Gailor. 


I 


■ 


ri3r3 


W— www 


THE  MEANING  OF  THE  NEW 
INSTITUTION 

I 

THE  FOUNDATION:  ITS  SOURCE 


IT  is  a  common  saying  in  drawing-room  and  market-place 
that  we  are  living  in  a  wonderful  age.  Perhaps  no  known 
period  of  the  past  towers  up  to  it,  unless  it  be  the  age  of 
Pericles,  or  that  in  which  the  Roman  Empire  was  consoli- 
dated, or  that  of  the  Reformation.  No  features  of  the  age 
are  more  striking  than  the  handsome  foundations  which  have 
been  provided  by  private  donation  for  lengthening  the  days 
of  man  and  enlarging  the  content  of  his  spiritual  life.  Every 
child  of  ten  years  knows  the  names  of  Alfred  Nobel  and 
Cecil  Rhodes,  of  Mr.  Carnegie  and  Mr.  Rockefeller,  of 
Girard  and  Peabody,  of  Johns  Hopkins,  Leland  Stanford, 
and  Cornell:  the  names  of  these  gentlemen  are  household 
words,  and  in  thousands  of  American  homes  their  bearers 
have  become  household  gods. 

In  this  charmed  circle  of  immortal  philanthropists  the 
name  of  William  Marsh  Rice  is  permanently  inscribed  this 
day  by  the  poet  of  Princeton,  the  jurist  of  Texas,  and  the 
bishop  of  Tennessee.  Thanks  to  the  inaugural  lectures  of 
those  twelve  prophets  of  the  fundamental  sciences,  the  lib- 
eral humanities,  the  progress  of  modern  learning,  Altamira 
of  Madrid,  Borel  of  Paris,  Croce  of  Naples,  De  Vries  of 
Amsterdam,  Jones  of  Glasgow,  Kikuchi  of  Tokyo,  Mackail 
of  Oxford,  Ostwald  of  Leipsic,  the  lamented  Poincare  of 
Paris,  Ramsay  of  London,  St0rmer  of  Christiania,  and  Vol- 
terra   of  Rome,  the  good-will  of  Mr.   Rice  to  open  new 


« 


s# 


) 


THE     FIRST    or  ADR  ANGLE    OF    THE     UNIVERSITY 


I 


SCALE 


TH  E 


GENERAL     ARCHITECTURAL     I*  L  A  N 


r* 


i 


\ 


SCALE         »M  : 


C  H  I  T  E  C  T  L  R  A  L     PLAN 


I 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

springs  of  inspiration  and  living  fountains  of  knowledge  in 
an  institution  of  liberal  and  technical  learning  becomes 
known  to  the  world  of  letters  and  science  and  art,  to  whose 
advancement  he  gave  of  his  substance  and  of  his  life. 

For  this  fair  day  we  have  worked  and  prayed  and  waited. 
In  the  faith  of  high  adventure,  in  the  joy  of  high  endeavor, 
in  the  hope  of  high  achievement,  we  have  asked  for  strength, 
and  with  the  strength  a  vision,  and  with  the  vision  courage : 
the  courage  born  of  straight  and  clear  thinking,  the  vision  of 
enduring  forms  of  human  service,  the  strength  in  resolute 
and  steadfast  devotion  to  definite  purpose.  And  to-day,  by 
virtue  of  the  founder's  splendid  gift  to  the  people,  by  virtue 
of  the  public  spirit  of  his  early  advisers,  by  virtue  of  the 
public  service  of  those  who  defended  his  last  will  and  testa- 
ment and  thereby  protected  the  people's  rights,  by  virtue  of 
the  covenant  which  his  trustees  have  kept  in  all  good  faith 
and  conscience,  by  virtue  of  the  constant  creative  work  of 
supervising  architects  and  the  arduous  labors  of  constructive 
engineers,  by  virtue  of  the  cheer  and  the  criticism  and  the 
counsel  of  friends  in  the  community  and  throughout  the  com- 
monwealth, the  Rice  Institute  which  was  to  be,  in  this  its 
modest  beginning,  now  has  come  to  be— the  new  foundation 
has  accomplished  in  its  own  being  the  miracle  of  all  living 
things:  it  has  come  to  life,  and  from  this  day  forth  takes  a 
place,  let  us  hope  of  increasing  influence  and  usefulness, 
among  those  institutions  which  have  made  possible  the  civ- 
ilized life  of  men  in  communities  of  culture  and  restraint— 
the  State,  the  Church,  and  the  University. 

There  are  men  and  men  and  men.  There  are  men  of  mil- 
lions and  men  of  millions.  William  Marsh  Rice  was  a  man 
in  a  million,  an  inspired  millionaire  who  caught  the  prospect 
of  monumental  service  to  Houston,  to  Texas,  the  South,  and 
the  Nation.     With  no  resources  other  than  soundness  of 

[133] 


1 


'I: 


tl 


••^ 


i 


It 


4^. 


>- 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

body  and  strength  of  will,  from  a  New  England  home  of 
English  and  Welsh  forebears,  he  came  to  Texas  in  his  youth 
to  make  his  fortune.     By  temperate  habits  of  industry  and 
thrift  he  made  a  fortune  in  Texas.    He  left  his  fortune  in 
Texas.     He  gave  his  fortune — the  whole  of  it— to  Texas, 
for  the  benefit  of  the  youth  of  the  land  in  all  the  years  to 
come ;  thus  writing  in  the  history  of  Texas  the  first  conspicu- 
ous example  in  this  commonwealth  of  the  complete  dedica- 
tion of  a  large  private  fortune  to  the  public  good.     More- 
over, resolutely  living  a  simple  life,  he  denied  himself  even 
the  "durable  satisfaction"  of  seeing  his  philanthropy's  reali- 
zation in  order  that  he  might  give  more  abundantly  of  life 
to  his  fellows  and  their  successors.     Shrewd  in  foresight, 
strong  in  purpose,  of  stout  courage  and  independent  spirit, 
generation  after  generation  will  rise  to  call  him  blessed— 
"with  honour,  honour,  honour,  honour  to  him,  eternal  hon- 
our to  his  name." 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


l^S^l 


1 


II 

THE  FOUNDATION:  ITS  SITE 

TO  his  trustees,  a  self-perpetuating  board  of  seven  life 
members,  the  founder  gave  great  freedom  in  the  inter- 
pretation of  his  programme  and  corresponding  discretion  in 
the  execution  of  its  plans.  The  charter  and  testament  under 
which  these  gentlemen  discharge  the  obligations  of  their  trus- 
teeship are  documents  so  liberal  and  comprehensive  as  to 
leave  the  institution  under  practically  but  one  restriction, 
namely,  its  location  must  be  in  Houston,  Texas.  But  therein 
lies  what  is  perhaps  its  greatest  opportunity.  For  men  who 
are  too  busy  doing  the  world's  work  to  find  time  to  talk  about 
it  would  tell  you  that  there  never  were  more  insistent  chal- 
lenges to  constructive  thinking  than  are  confronting  the 
South  at  the  present  time.  Opportunity  is  written  over  the 
whole  Southwest :  opportunity  commercial,  opportunity  po- 
litical, opportunity  educational,  but  educational  opportunity 
is  written  larger  than  all  the  rest.  We  have  problems  to 
face,  serious  ones,  that  have  been  perplexing  the  South  for  a 
generation:  but  even  to  the  most  superficial  observer  it  is 
daily  becoming  more  and  more  apparent  that  any  solution 
of  these  peculiar  problems  of  the  South  calls  for  solutions  of 
Southern  educational  problems  in  terms  of  educational  op- 
portunities for  all  the  people.  Furthermore,  the  agricultu- 
ral and  industrial  transformation  now  in  process  of  develop- 
ment offers  manifold  additional  arguments  to  Southern  men 
to  prepare  their  sons  for  the  possession  of  this  land  of  plenty 
and  progress.  Though  for  nearly  a  generation  the  ambi- 
tious young  Southerner  may  have  seen  larger  possibilities 

D35] 


II 


ii 


t 


\ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

ahead  of  him  farther  from  home,  to-day  he  finds  conditions 
completely  changed.  Go  South,  young  man  I  is  the  slogan 
in  one  section.  Stay  South,  young  man!  is  the  answering 
call  of  opportunity  in  the  other. 

In  the  South  and  in  the  West,  of  the  South  and  of  the 
West,  you  find  yourselv^es  in  an  environment  whose  clear 
skies  make  men  blandly  or  keenly  observant  of  their  powers, 
whose  mild  climate  keeps  men  constantly  human  and  neigh- 
borly and  friendly  in  ways  of  living  whose  democracy  recog- 
nizes no  inequalities;  in  an  environment  which  will  have  its 
way  with  us  unless  we  have  our  way  with  it;  an  environment 
bristling  with  opportunities  for  creative  and  constructive 
effort.  You  find  yourselves  in  a  State  which  can  know  no 
provincialism,  because  it  has  lived  under  seven  flags.  You 
find  yourselves  in  a  section  of  that  State  which  lives  under 
a  categorical  imperative  of  progress,  for  we  of  the  plains  are 
drawn  by  irresistible  lure  of  the  prairie,  impelled  to  advance 
by  beckoning  mirage  quite  as  wonderful  as  mountain  pros- 
pect. You  find  yourselves  among  men  who  live  their  lives 
in  the  open,  under  a  making  sun  that  does  not  rise  but  jumps 
from  the  horizon  full-orbed  in  his  noonday  splendor. 

And  how  you  do  get  into  your  blood  and  bone  the  wine 
and  spirit  of  this  country!  Speedily  you  absorb  its  patriot- 
ism and  pride,  and  as  speedily  come  to  feel  the  fearlessness 
and  freedom,  the  frankness  and  the  faith,  that  characterize 
the  life  of  this  Texan  empire.  For  this  reason  it  is  that  in 
portraying  its  virtues  modesty  is  not  a  sin  which  doth  so 
easily  beset  us.  Houston— heavenly  Houston,  as  it  has  been 
happily  named  by  a  distinguished  local  editor  of  more  than 
local  fame— you  will  find  in  some  ways  a  bit  too  close  to 
New  York,  perhaps,  but  here  you  will  also  find  many  a  heart- 
ening reminder  of  the  memories  and  traditions  of  the  South, 
and  all  the  moving  inspiration  in  the  promise  and  adventure 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

of  the  West.  Here,  in  a  cosmopolitan  place,  in  a  community 
shaking  itself  from  the  slow  step  of  a  country  village  to  the 
self-conscious  stature  of  a  metropolitan  town,  completing  a 
channel  to  the  deep  blue  sea,  growing  a  thousand  acres  of 
skyscrapers,  building  schools  and  factories  and  churches  and 
homes,  you  will  learn  to  talk  about  lumber  and  cotton  and 
railroads  and  oil,  but  you  will  also  find  every  ear  turned 
ready  to  listen  to  you  if  you  really  have  anything  to  say  about 
literature  or  science  or  art.  Of  cities  there  are  genera  and 
species  and  types  whose  science  is  still  to  be  written:  cities  of 
arms,  cities  of  kings,  cities  of  government,  cities  of  com- 
merce and  industry,  cities  of  pleasure  and  leisure,  beautiful 
cities  of  art,  holy  cities  of  cathedrals  and  convents,  univer- 
sity cities  of  letters  and  science.  Houston  at  present  may 
fail  of  qualifying  for  admission  to  certain  of  these  classes, 
but  there  is  great  reason  to  rejoice  in  the  commercial  pros- 
perity of  the  city  and  in  the  growing  development  of  the 
community;  for  just  as  certainly  as  trade  follows  the  flag, 
just  so  certainly  does  the  patron  of  learning  follow  in  the 
wake  of  the  empire-builder.  For  builders  of  cities,  great 
merchants  and  captains  of  industry,  by  the  character  of  their 
work  and  the  extent  of  their  interests,  are  rendered  alert, 
open-minded,  hospitable  to  large  ideas,  accustomed  to  and 
tolerant  of  the  widest  divergencies  of  view.  Thus  it  has  come 
to  be  that  great  trading  centers  have  often  been  conspicuous 
centers  of  vigorous  intellectual  life:  Athens,  Florence,  Ven- 
ice, and  Amsterdam  were  cities  great  in  commerce;  but,  in- 
spired by  the  love  of  truth  and  beauty,  they  stimulated  and 
sustained  the  finest  aspirations  of  poets,  scholars,  and  artists 
within  their  walls.  It  requires  no  prophet's  eye  to  reach  a 
similar  vision  for  our  own  city.  I  have  felt  the  spirit  of 
greatness  brooding  over  the  city.  I  have  heard  her  step  at 
midnight,  I  have  seen  her  face  at  dawn.    I  have  lived  under 

[137] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

the  spell  of  the  building  of  the  city,  and  under  the  spell  of 
the  building  of  the  city  I  have  come  to  believe  in  the  larger 
life  ahead  of  us,  in  the  house  not  made  with  hands  which  we 
begin  this  day  to  build.  However,  in  the  exultation  of  the 
moment  in  which  we  witness  the  dedication  of  the  new  uni- 
versity, we  must  not  forget  that  the  organization  which  Wil- 
liam Marsh  Rice  incorporated  has  already  rendered  the  city 
and  State  of  his  adoption  considerable  service.  I  need  hardly 
remind  you  that  during  recent  years  the  Rice  Institute  has 
contributed  in  a  substantial  manner  to  the  upbuilding  or 
Greater  Houston.  On  a  conservative  basis— always  on  a 
conservative  basis— certain  of  the  foundation's  funds  have 
been  invested  in  various  enterprises  which  have  sustained  in 
no  small  measure  the  steady  and  continuous  advance  of  the 
city  in  industrial  and  commercial  prosperity. 

The  epoch  whose  beginning  we  observe  to-day  with  these 
formal  exercises  marks  the  period  in  which  even  more  pow- 
erfully that  same  organization  is  to  support  the  intellectual 
and  spiritual  welfare  of  the  community;  and,  finally,  to  touch 
again  upon  the  material  side  of  progress,  the  very  machinery 
by  which  the  stone  age  of  the  new  university  is  about  to  be 
transformed  into  its  spiritual  age  will  distribute  the  income 
of  the  foundation  through  the  several  channels  of  Houston's 
business,  philanthropic,  social,  and  religious  life;  and  thus 
we  contemplate  with  some  degree  of  satisfaction  the  slow 
but  sure  evolution  of  a  threefold  Influence  on  the  material, 
the  intellectual,  and  the  spiritual  aspects  of  the  life  of  the 
city. 


L'3^1 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


III 

THE  FOUNDATION:  ITS  HISTORY 

IT  Is  now  rather  more  than  twenty  years  since  several  pub- 
lic-spirited citizens  of  the  community  asked  Mr.  Rice  to 
bear  the  expense  of  building  a  new  public  high  school  for 
the  city  of  Houston.  This  direct  gift  to  the  city's  welfare 
Mr.  Rice  was  unwilling  to  make,  but  a  few  months  later, 
taking  into  his  confidence  a  half-dozen  friends,  he  made 
known  to  them  his  desire  to  found  a  much  larger  educational 
enterprise  for  the  permanent  benefit  of  the  city  and  State  of 
his  adoption.  These  gentlemen  were  organized  Into  a  Board 
of  Trustees  for  the  new  foundation,  which  was  Incorporated 
In  1 89 1  under  a  broad  charter  granting  the  trustees  large 
freedom  In  the  future  organization  of  a  non-polItlcal  and  non- 
sectarian  Institution  to  be  dedicated  to  the  advancement  of 
letters,  science,  and  art.  As  a  nucleus  for  an  endowment 
fund,  Mr.  Rice  at  this  time  made  over  an  interest-bearing 
note  of  two  hundred  thousand  dollars  to  the  original  Board 
of  Trustees,  consisting  of  himself,  the  late  Messrs.  F.  A. 
Rice  and  A.  S.  Richardson,  and  Messrs.  James  Addison 
Baker,  James  Everett  McAshan,  Emmanuel  Raphael,^  and 
Cesar  Maurice  Lombardl.  Under  the  terms  of  the  charter, 
the  board  Is  a  self-perpetuating  body  of  seven  members 
elected  for  life:  vacancies  since  Its  organization  have  been 
filled  bv  the  election  of  Messrs.  William  Marsh  Rice,  Jr., 
Benjamin  Botts  Rice,  and  Edgar  Odell  Lovett. 

It  was  the  unalterable  will  of  the  founder  that  the  devel- 
opment of  the  work  which  he  had  conceived  should  progress 

1  In  succession  to  the  late  Mr.  Raphael,  whose  lamented  death  has  occurred 
since  the  reading  of  this  address,  Mr.  John  Thaddeus  Scott  of  Houston  has 
been  elected  to  membership  on  the  Board  of  Trustees  of  the  Institute. 

[1393 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

no  further  during  his  lifetime.     However,  in  the  remaining 
days  of  his  life  he  increased  the  endowment  fund  from  time 
to  time  by  transferring  to  the  trustees  the  titles  to  certain  of 
his  properties,  and  in  the  end  made  the  new  foundation  his 
residuary  legatee.  Upon  the  termination  of  the  long  years  of 
litigation  which  followed  Mr.   Rice's  death  in   1900,  the 
Board  of  Trustees  found  the  Institute  in  possession  of  an 
estate  whose  present  value  is  conservatively  estimated  at 
approximately  ten  million  dollars,  divided  by  the  provisions 
of  the  founder's  will  into  almost  equal  parts,  available  for 
equipment  and  endowment  respectively.   It  may  be  remarked 
in  passing  that  it  is  the  determined  policy  of  the  trustees  to 
build  and  maintain  the  institution  out  of  the  income,  thus 
preserving  intact  the  principal  not  only  of  the  endowment 
fund  but  also  that  of  the  equipment  fund.    While  proceeding 
to  convert  the  non-productive  properties  of  the  estate  into 
income-bearing  investments,  the  trustees  called  a  professor 
in   Princeton  University  to  assist  them  in  developing  the 
founder's  far-reaching  plans.     Before  taking  up  his  resi- 
dence in  Houston,  the  future  president  visited  the  leading 
educational  and  scientific  establishments  of  the  world,  re- 
turning in  the  summer  of  1909  from  a  year's  journey  of 
study  that  extended  from  England  to  Japan.     About  this 
time  negotiations  were  completed  by  which  the  Institute  se- 
cured a  campus  of  three  hundred  acres  situated  on  the  ex- 
tension of  Houston's  main  thoroughfare,  three  miles  from 
the  center  of  the  city— a  tract  of  ground  universally  regarded 
as  the  most  appropriate  within  the  vicinity  of  the  city. 

Another  early  decision  of  the  trustees  of  the  Institute  was 
the  determination  that  the  new  institution  should  be  housed 
in  noble  architecture  worthy  of  the  founder's  high  aims;  and 
upon  this  idea  they  entered  with  no  lower  ambition  than  to 
establish  on  the  campus  of  the  Institute  a  group  of  buildings 


I 


r 


Princeton   I 

October  th. 


u, . « 


To  The  Rice  Institute 

Houston,  Texas 

Gentlemen : 

On    behalf  of  the  authorities  of  Prin^*  *■ -n   Unher*v      ^ 
have  the  honor   of  acknowledging  )         '  -    invitai»on 

asking  that  our  academic  ho<iy    h,i  1  b  •c'serircdon  O 

tenth,  eleventh  and  twclith  a^  th      .  for^r 

rating  the  Rice  Ji-r^turr'  rf  j  ]}  ,!  !        . 

It  therefore    gisus   uic  j^icav  piw^^uj ; 
Princeton    University   has  appointed  William    FranoN 
Kenr)  Professor  of  Physics  and  Dean  of  the  Faculty,  and  Henr) 
van  Dyke,  Murray  Professor  of  English   Iv-'mr  mend 

m  person  as  our  delegates,  •^  -  --^ 

ihc  Rice  Institute  on  the  a^-  .sw>n  oi  tL% 

ication  and  to  extend  to    our  P' 

> 

in  Princeton  University.^  the  a  J 

good  will.     May  this  new-bor^  ^^ 
nical  Learning,  ever  keeping  1. 
founder,  equal  the  best  desires  ot  those  \s  the 

opening  years  of  its  career,  ennch  the  intellect  te  of  the 

great  State  of  Texa^s  and  of  our  narinn,  und  hrin  rr>  dcvr^fe  man- 
•kind  for  generations  to  come^t.v  ;-  :ii  mvn  >iiaii  care 

for  the  cause  of  truth  and  knowkdge 


■       ■     ItiC    Ul|^15     iillCOi     O' 


~r> 


*  C 


rndcnt 


no  furt^pr  {-!• 
days  of  t. 
to  time  b' 
his  proper  lies 


»'f-irne.     Hntx'fM-er,  in  the  remaining 

>ed  the  endowment  fund  from  time 

)  ihe  fnistees  the  fifl?^s  to  certain  of 

no  made  the  new  foundation  his 

n  •■h{'  t^r!?v'r!3tion  o(  the  long  years  of 

i\icc  s  vieath  in    1900,   the 

r;  !-h-^  In^tftnte  in  oossession  of  an 

DscrvatiV  cly   estiinaced   at 

•v'ded  by  the  provisions 

'  "*      available  for 

!r  niav  he  remarked 

trustees  to 

income^  thus 

■  ^wment 

ceding 

'"^tate  into 


I  i :  i  i  ^.. 

ment  respective 


Ct     I-'  v.-  •      . 

mtam  the  mstitution  out 

a  out  aistj  mat  Of  the  t. 
convert  rh?-  Jnrtiv.' 

inconie-oearinv  estn}enri.,  toe  trustees  called  a  professor 
In  Princeton  University  to  assist  them  in  developing  the 
^""" '■  ^ii'ig  plans.  Beir,  .  taking  up  his  resi- 
dence Houston,  the  ;re  oresident  visited  the  lending 
^^"  ^        .    i^i^  woriu,  re- 

turnir  iqrx  s  journey  of 

1.     About  this 

mpieted  by  which  the  Institute  se- 

■  ^(  th-r^  HiM^dred  ''i:\ttd  on  the  ex- 

itare,  three  miles  from 
>nnd  ijnM'.  rc^l'y  rctifardcd 
cmity  ot  the  city. 

.  institute  was 

on  snould  be  housed 

under's  high  aims;  and 


the 


cjsion  01 


An< 
the  deic 
in  noble  archifecture  worthv 


upon  this  iu  -ntered  wtta  no  iuwer  ambition  than  to 

establish  on  the  campus  of  the  Institute  a  group  of  buildings 

[HO  J 


N 


Princeton  University 

October  the  first,  191 2 

To  The  Rice  Institute 

Houston,  Texas 

Gentlemen: 

On  behalf  of  the  authorities  of  Princeton  University  I 
have  the  honor  of  acknowledging  your  hospitable  invitation 
asking  that  our  academic  body  shall  be  represented  on  October 
tenth,  eleventh  and  twelfth  at  the  ceremonies  formallv  inaugu- 
rating the  Rice  Institute  of  Liberal  and  Technical  Learning. 

It  therefore  gives  me  great  pleasure  to  notifv  vou  that 
Princeton  University  has  appointed  William  Francis  Magie, 
Henry  Professor  of  Physics  and  Dean  of  the  Faculty,  and  Henry 
van  Dyke,  Murray  Professor  of  English  Literature,  to  attend 
in  person  as  our  delegates,  to  present  our  congratulations  to 
the  Rice  Institute  on  the  auspicious  occasion  of  its  formal  ded- 
ication and  to  extend  to  your  President,  our  former  colleague 
in  Princeton  University,  the  assurance  of  our  remembrance  and 
good  will.  May  this  new-born  Institute  of  Liberal  and  Tech- 
nical Learning,  ever  keeping  faith  with  the  high  intent  of  its 
founder,  equal  the  best  desires  of  those  who  are  guiding  the 
opening  years  of  its  career,  enrich  the  intellectual  life  of  the 
great  State  of  Texas  and  of  our  nation,  and  help  to  elevate  man- 
kind for  generations  to  come,  even  for  as  long  as  men  shall  care 
for  the  cause  of  truth  and  knowledge. 


■■A 


President 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

conspicuous  alike  for  their  beauty  and  for  their  utility,  which 
should  stand  not  only  as  a  worthy  monument  to  the  founder's 
philanthropy,  but  also  as  a  distinct  contribution  to  the  archi- 
tecture of  our  country.  With  this  end  in  view  they  deter- 
mined to  commit  to  Messrs.  Cram,  Goodhue,  and  Ferguson, 
of  Boston  and  New  York,  the  task  of  designing  a  general 
architectural  plan  to  embody  in  the  course  of  future  years 
the  realization  of  the  educational  programme  which  had 
been  adopted  for  the  Institute.  Such  a  general  plan,  the  work 
of  Mr.  Ralph  Adams  Cram,  L.H.D.,  exhibiting  in  itself  many 
attractive  elements  of  the  architecture  of  Italy,  France,  and 
Spain,  was  accepted  by  the  board  in  the  spring  of  1910. 
Immediately  thereafter  plans  and  specifications  for  an 
administration  building  were  prepared,  and  in  the  following 
July  the  contract  for  its  construction  was  awarded;  three 
months  later  the  erection  of  a  mechanical  laboratory  and 
power-house  was  begun,  and  by  the  next  autumn  the  con- 
struction of  two  wings  of  the  first  residential  hall  for  men 
was  well  under  way.  In  the  preparation  of  preliminary  plans 
for  these  building  operations  the  Institute  enjoyed  the  co- 
operation of  an  advisory  committee  consisting  of  Professor 
Ames,  director  of  the  physical  laboratory  of  Johns  Hopkins 
University;  Professor  Conklin,  director  of  the  biological 
laboratory  of  Princeton  University;  Professor  Richards, 
chairman  of  the  department  of  chemistry,  Harvard  Univer- 
sity; and  Professor  Stratton,  director  of  the  National  Bu- 
reau of  Standards.  Among  the  additional  buildings  for 
which  tentative  studies  have  already  been  made  are  special 
laboratories  for  instruction  and  investigation  in  physics,^ 
chemistry,  and  biology. 

1  Since  this  address  was  read  the  construction  of  the  physics  laboratories 
has  been  begun  from  plans  prepared  b}'  Messrs.  Cram  and  Ferguson  under 
the  direction  of  Mr.  Harold  Albert  Wilson,  D.Sc,  F.R.S.,  resident  professor  of 
physics  in  the  Institute.  By  the  beginning  of  the  next  academic  year  (1914- 
15)  these  laboratories  will  be  ready  for  occupancy,  as  will  also  the  third 
wing  of  the  first  residential  hall  for  men. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


IV 

THE  UNIVERSITY:  ITS  STUDIES  AND  STANDARDS 


THAT  we  have  been  making  large  plans  is  already  a 
commonplace  of  our  thinking  and  talking.  In  the  pro- 
posed solutions  of  some  of  the  problems  confronting  them 
the  trustees  have  been  moved  by  several  considerations, 
which  may  appropriately  be  recapitulated  at  this  time.  In 
the  first  place,  the  financial  resources  of  the  institution,  how- 
ever handsome,  are  limited;  for  this  reason  it  was  deter- 
mined to  build  and  maintain  the  Institute  out  of  the  income, 
keeping  the  principal  of  all  funds  intact.  In  the  second  place, 
the  new  institution  is  located  in  a  new  and  rapidly  develop- 
ing country.  In  the  third  place,  the  very  problems  pressing 
for  resolution  in  the  development  of  the  environment  seemed 
to  call  for  a  school  of  science,  pure  and  applied,  of  the  high- 
est grade,  looking,  in  its  educational  programme,  quite  as 
much  to  investigation  as  to  instruction. 

Accordingly,  and  in  the  spirit  of  the  founder's  dedication 
of  the  Institute,  it  was  proposed  that  the  new  institution 
should  enter  upon  a  university  programme,  beginning  at  the 
science  end.  As  regards  the  letters  end  of  the  threefold 
dedication,  it  was  proposed  to  characterize  the  institution  as 
one  both  of  liberal  and  of  technical  learning,  and  to  realize 
the  larger  characterization  as  rapidly  as  circumstances  might 
permit.  With  respect  to  the  art  end,  it  was  proposed  to  take 
architecture  seriously  in  the  preparation  of  all  of  its  plans, 
and  to  see  to  it  that  the  physical  setting  of  the  Institute  be 
one  of  great  beauty  as  well  as  of  more  immediate  utility. 
This  in  a  nutshell  is  the  programme  on  which  we  have 

[142] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

thought  with  great  deliberation  and  wrought  with  even 
greater  care.  Its  chronology  to  date  consists  of  one  year  of 
preparatory  study  from  England  to  Japan,  one  year  in  the 
making  of  preliminary  plans,  and  two  years  in  work  of  actual 
construction  and  organization. 

The  new  institution  thus  aspires  to  university  standing  of 
the  highest  grade,  and  would  achieve  its  earliest  claims  to 
this  distinction  in  those  regions  of  inquiry  and  investigation 
where  the  methods  of  modern  science  are  more  directly  ap- 
plicable. For  the  present  it  is  proposed  to  assign  no  upper 
limit  to  its  educational  endeavor,  and  to  place  the  lower 
limit  no  lower  than  the  standard  entrance  requirements  of 
the  more  conservative  universities  of  the  country.  More- 
over, all  courses  of  instruction  and  investigation,  graduate 
and  undergraduate,  will  be  open  both  to  young  men  and  to 
young  women,  and  for  the  present,  without  tuition  and  with- 
out fees.  These  courses  will  be  offered  by  a  staff,  initially 
organized  for  university  and  college  work,  ultimately  to  con- 
sist of  three  grand  divisions,  science,  humanity,  technology, 
each  of  which  will  break  up  into  as  many  or  more  separate 
faculties.  For  these  faculties  the  best  available  instructors 
and  investigators  are  being  sought  wherever  they  may  be 
found,  in  the  hope  of  assembling  a  group  of  unusually  able 
scientists  and  scholars  through  whose  productive  work  the 
Institute  should  speedily  take  a  place  of  considerable  impor- 
tance among  established  institutions.  Friends  of  education 
in  America  would  insist  that  the  term  "Institute"  is  too  nar- 
row in  its  connotation,  friends  of  science  in  Europe  would 
contend  that  it  is  too  broad.  However,  in  its  dedication  to 
the  advancement  of  letters,  science,  and  art,  the  educational 
programme  of  liberal  and  technical  learning  now  being  de- 
veloped may  justify  the  designation  "Institute"  as  represent- 
ing the  functions  of  a  teaching  university  of  learning,  and,  at 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

least  in  some  of  its  departments,  those  of  the  more  recent 
research  institutions  founded  in  this  country  and  abroad. 

The  planning  of  universities  is  no  new  problem.  The  list 
of  modern  solutions  under  state  initiative  is  a  long  one  from 
the  national  universities  of  Japan  at  Tokyo  and  Kyoto  down 
to  the  reconstruction  of  the  University  of  Paris  and  the  re- 
vival of  the  French  provincial  universities;  the  reorganiza- 
tion of  the  University  of  London  and  the  founding  of  the 
newer  English  municipal  universities  at  Durham,  Manches- 
ter, Liverpool,  Birmingham,  Leeds,  Sheffield,  and  Bristol; 
the  newest  members  of  the  German  system  in  the  universities 
of  Frankfort,  Dresden,  and  Hamburg;  and  the  conspicuous 
development  of  state  institutions  in  our  own  country— to 
name  but  a  few,  in  the  new  California  under  Wheeler,  the 
new  Illinois  under  Draper  and  James,  the  new  Texas  under 
Houston  and  Mezes,  the  new  Virginia  under  Alderman,  and 
the  new  Wisconsin  under  Van  Hise.  And  at  this  very  mo- 
ment there  are  building  two  new  universities  in  Hungary, 
three  in  Canada,  and  two  in  Japan,  while  plans  are  being 
formulated  for  new  institutions  in  China,  Australia,  and 
South  Africa.  Within  the  memory  of  all  of  us  there  have 
arisen  on  the  benefactions  of  American  philanthropists  the 
Johns  Hopkins  University  under  Oilman  and  Remsen,  Cor- 
nell University  under  White  and  Adams  and  Schurman,  the 
University  of  Chicago  under  Harper  and  Judson,  Leland 
Stanford  under  Jordan,  and  Clark  under  Hall;  while  the 
same  period  of  university  building  has  witnessed  equally 
striking  evolutions  in  the  older  American  private  founda- 
tions, notably  the  new  Harvard  under  Eliot  and  Lowell,  the 
new  Yale  under  Porter  and  Dwight  and  Hadley,  the  new 
Princeton  under  McCosh  and  Patton  and  Wilson  and 
HIbben,  the  new  Columbia  under  Low  and  Butler,  and  the 
new  Pennsylvania  under  Harrison  and  Smith. 

[144] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

It  has  been  remarked  that  an  inventory  of  present-day 
universities  would  reveal  thirteenth-century  universities,  fif- 
teenth-century universities,  nineteenth-century  universities, 
and  twentieth-century  universities  in  formidable  array  and 
considerable  confusion.  There  are  universities  that  swear 
by  Plato,  others  by  Euclid,  and  others  by  Adam  Smith.  Some 
uphold  the  Thirty-nine  Articles,  while  others  worship  ra- 
dium and  helium.  From  glorified  engineering  shops  to  scho- 
lastic sanctuaries,  they  offer  the  widest  possible  choice  of 
type. 

Nevertheless,  there  has  been  evolving  a  composite  con- 
ception of  the  university  In  some  such  characterization  of  its 
functions  as  follows : 

First,  from  the  persistent  past,  in  which  there  are  no  dead, 
to  embody  within  its  walls  the  learning  of  the  world  in  living 
exponents  of  scholarship,  who  shall  maintain.  In  letters,  sci- 
ence, and  art,  standards  of  truth  and  beauty,  and  canons  of 
criticism  and  taste. 

Second,  for  the  living  present  and  its  persistence  in  the 
future,  to  enlarge  the  boundaries  of  human  learning  and  to 
give  powerful  aid  to  the  advancement  of  knowledge,  as  such, 
by  developing  creative  capacity  In  those  disciplines  through 
which  men  seek  for  truth  and  strive  after  beauty. 

Third,  on  call  of  State  or  Church  or  University,  to  convey 
to  its  community  and  commonwealth,  in  popular  quite  as 
much  as  in  permanent  form,  the  products  of  Its  own  and 
other  men^s  thinking  on  current  problems  of  science  and  so- 
ciety, of  government  and  public  order,  of  knowledge  and 
conduct. 

Fourth,  in  support  of  all  institutes  of  civilization  and  all 
instruments  of  progress,  to  contribute  to  the  welfare  of  hu- 
mankind in  freedom,  prosperity,  and  health,  by  sending 
forth  constant  streams  of  liberally  educated  men  and  women 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

to  be  leaders  of  public  opinion  in  the  service  of  the  people, 
constant  streams  of  technically  trained  practitioners  for  all 
the  brain-working  professions  of  our  time,  not  alone  law, 
medicine,  and  theology,  but  also  every  department  of  ser- 
vice and  learning,  from  engineering,  architecture,  commerce, 
and  agriculture,  to  teaching,  banking,  journalism,  and  public 
administration. 

As  thus  conceived,  the  university  is  a  great  storehouse  of 
learning,  a  great  bureau  of  standards,  a  great  workshop  of 
knowledge,  a  great  laboratory  for  the  training  of  men  of 
thought  and  men  of  action.  Under  this  conception  of  its 
functions  the  university  has  to  do  with  the  preservation  of 
knowledge,  with  the  discovery  and  distribution  of  know- 
ledge, with  the  applications  of  knowledge,  and  with  the  mak- 
ing of  knowledge-makers.  Singling  out  one  line  of  its  activi- 
ties, the  business  of  a  university  is  to  teach  science,  to  create 
science,  to  apply  science,  to  make  scientists.  To  be  even 
more  specific,  its  objects  in  the  department  of  chemistry  are 
to  teach  chemistry,  to  create  chemistry,  to  apply  chemistry 
in  all  the  arts  of  industry  and  commerce,  and  to  make  more 
creative  chemists.  This  conception  of  the  manifold  function 
of  a  university  in  scholarship,  in  science,  in  social  service, 
and  in  civilization  corresponds  point  by  point  to  the  fourfold 
function  of  the  career  of  a  scholar  or  scientist:  in  scholar- 
ship, a  conservator  of  knowledge;  in  science,  a  creator  of 
knowledge;  in  citizenship,  a  contributor  to  public  opinion;  in 
service,  a  controller  of  the  destiny  of  the  cherished  institu- 
tions of  civilization. 

However,  even  to  those  who  recognize  in  patriotism,  edu- 
cation, and  religion  supreme  enterprises  of  the  human  spirit, 
education  itself  is  proverbially  a  dull  subject  whose  technical 
details  are  sometimes  dry  as  dust.  For  instance,  I  am  by  no 
means  convinced  that  a  discussion  of  the  metaphysics  of  the 

[1463 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

optative  mood  in  Greek  would  be  especially  edifying  on  this 
occasion.  Then,  too,  mathematical  studies  are  poems  of  a 
variety  better  appreciated  when  read  in  private  than  when 
declaimed  in  public.  Nor  are  you  likely  moved  at  this  time 
by  any  overpowering  desire  for  relief  from  the  perplexity 
of  that  dear  old  lady  who  said  she  could  readily  make  out 
how  astronomers  determined  the  distances  and  dimensions, 
masses  and  motions,  constitution  and  careers  of  the  heavenly 
bodies,  but  for  the  life  of  her  she  never  could  understand 
how  they  found  out  their  beautiful  names. 

But  studies  and  standards,  students  and  staff  are  elements 
of  a  university  programme  quite  as  important  as  are  a  ma- 
chine-shop, a  file  of  journals,  a  lively  imagination,  and  a 
printing-press,  its  other  constituent  parts.  If  a  university 
should  take  all  knowledge  for  its  province,  it  becomes  neces- 
sary to  undertake  a  classification  of  knowledge,  a  problem 
never  yet  done  with  satisfaction  to  any  one  except  perhaps 
the  last  man  attempting  it.  Nor  is  the  problem  rendered 
inordinately  simple  when  restricted  to  a  programme  in  sci- 
ence, for,  to  say  nothing  of  more  recent  modifications  up- 
heaving in  character,  the  scientific  thought  of  the  nineteenth 
century  has  been  made  by  Dr.  J.  Theodore  Merz  to  align 
itself  in  a  stately  march  of  no  fewer  than  ten  views  of  nature : 
the  astronomical,  the  atomic,  the  kinetic,  the  physical,  the 
morphological,  the  genetic,  the  vitalistic,  the  psychophysical, 
the  statistical,  and  the  mathematical  views. 

Yet  all  would  agree,  I  think,  that  in  mathematics,  physics, 
chemistry,  biology,  and  psychology  we  have  a  logical  series 
carefully  co-ordinated  in  subject-matter  and  sequence,  fur- 
nishing the  theoretic  foundations  for  the  applied  sciences  of 
engineering,  economics,  eugenics,  and  education.  Further- 
more, there  would  also  be  agreement  in  the  opinion  that  this 
co-ordinated  series  should  be  flanked  both  right  and  left  by 

1:147:1 


?i 


I 


\ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

history  and  its  interpretation,  as  a  great  laboratory  in  which 
to  test  all  plans  for  political  or  social  reform;  by  philosophy, 
as  a  clearing-house  for  all  theories  and  methods  of  know- 
ledge; by  letters,  as  the  record  in  "thoughts  that  breathe  and 
words  that  burn"  of  all  human  striving  after  sweetness  and 
light;  and  by  art,  the  creative  imagination's  flowering  prod- 
uct in  the  ennobling  and  enriching  of  the  content  of  life. 
Our  studies  are  thus  to  be  centered  in  the  fundamental 
branches  of  pure  science  with  a  view  to  solutions  of  prob- 
lems of  applied  science  in  engineering,  whose  chief  business 
is  the  development  of  the  material  resources  of  the  world;  in 
economics,  whose  cardinal  problem  is  that  of  the  distribu- 
tion of  the  wealth  thus  produced;  in  eugenics  as  the  newest 
of  the  sciences,  but  really  in  idea  no  younger  than  Plato, 
which  by  taking  thought  would  add  cubits  to  the  stature  of 
the  race;  and  finally  in  the  latest  of  the  experimental  sci- 
ences, namely,  education  itself,  in  whose  philosophical,  psy- 
chological, and  physiological  foundations  are  now  being 
sought  the  surest  means  of  training  the  intellects  and  stimu- 
lating the  imaginations  of  men. 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


fj 


V 

THE  UNIVERSITY:  ITS  SAINTS  AND  SEERS 

AS  thus  projected  on  a  background  of  philosophy,  history, 
xjL  letters,  and  art,  the  programme  of  this  university  of 
science  stands  forth  in  the  eflSgies  and  inscriptions  which 
have  been  cut  in  the  walls  of  this  the  first  house  of  the  home 
of  its  spirit. 

On  the  caps  of  the  cloister's  granite  columns  appear  the 
heads  of  sixteen  founders,  leaders,  and  pioneers  In 


Religion 
History 
Philosophy 
Art       .      . 

Jurisprudence 
Medicine    . 
Engineering 
Commerce 

Mathematics 
Physics 
Chemistry 
Biology 


Electric  Oscillations 
Aerodynamics 
Radioactivity    . 
Eugenics     . 


[h8] 


St.  Paul 
Thucydides 
Immanuel  Kant 
Michelangelo 

Thomas  Jefferson 
Pasteur 
De  Lesseps 
Christopher  Columbus 

Sophus  Lie 
Kelvin 
Mendeleeff 
Charles  Darwin 

Heinrich  Hertz 
Samuel  Langley 
Pierre  Curie 
Richard  Galton 

i:h9  3 


%M 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

The  obvious  guiding  call  in  this  consistory  of  canonization 
was  to  pass  from  the  ancient  enterprises  of  humane  learning 
to  the  modern  endeavors  of  scientific  exploration.  An  acci- 
dent of  considerable  interest  is  the  circumstance  that  in  the 
first  group  are  a  Greek,  a  Hebrew,  a  Latin,  and  a  Teuton, 
while  in  the  last  are  representatives  of  America,  England, 
France,  and  Germany. 

On  the  exterior  wall  of  the  Faculty  Chamber  the  threefold 
dedication  is  emblazoned  in  marble  tablets  to  letters,  science, 
and  art.  The  Tablet  to  Letters  bears  the  head  of  Homer, 
below  which  is  inscribed  Mackail's  translation  of  Pindar's 
tribute  to  style : 

*The  thing  that  one  says  well  goes  forth  with  a  voice  unto 
everlasting.'' 

The  Tablet  to  Science  bears  the  profile  of  Isaac  Newton 
together  with  Job's  anticipation  of  the  method  of  scientific 
inquiry  in  his 

**Speak  to  the  earth  and  it  shall  teach  thee  1" 

The  Tablet  to  Art  bears  the  head  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci, 
under  which  is  inscribed : 

*The  chief  function  of  art  is  to  make  gentle  the  life  of 
the  world." 


Adapted,  after  some  modifications,  from  certain  of  Ab- 
bey's mural  decorations  in  the  State  Capitol  of  Pennsylvania, 
modeled  by  C.  Percival  Dietsch,  and  executed  by  Oswald 
Lassig,  are  the  two  life-size  draped  figures  adjoining  the 
court  side  of  the  arch  of  the  sally-port  on  the  left  and  right 


W^\ 


m 


ifAi-aUnniar  a  ^ulidimtjiItairJihuvd^iiiiMtar 

s.p.x>. 

l«i-iu-i»olv    iuuitMvrio    x't  xu'biTM'iun   mnmni  votraui -Ara- 
iViuinm'tam  tVluitcr    auv^.iorttuno  ex  aiiiuui   anuocumo.    (i;}uo^ 
\iern  «ct*>   Ic.^ntiuti  :l^   fcvKi»>  ittv-trao  luirri'vc   iioluioti^:^.i3iiihii^ 
naintiio   plaiimno. 
t  ihcntiooiuii    nuMi  Vcormc  i'l'oci'ati   lu'liiutrtti  . c '^cuaru 


-n 


iVjiah  iljnrmm^  |.tcnituunu 


piulv'oovliiac  iillcamiiiinc^ochtmu-  ucc  mtii  iCirtcramin  Auijli- 
cavnm  ^hvKc'>ootvin,  i)ui  uiutulntiiuu-o  liotnqiu- ttlaaiotri  h'lYhmnn 
<>vnatuo   IhiiuaoiraHo  pcunoL'li'nuictt^t»3  tid  imo  pcrf^Ta^  cl 
.:^lt  cum  h-orio   hu-titiae  uc^tvuc  futit   pnrtircp^. 

'«i^miii-.>    autcnt    opcratnuo  Korc  iir  J^ca^cmin  \>v-o.h-n.  imi- 
'^'       itcroitntinn  Anti-rrcanninini  quaoi  oi«rin-  iratu  minium 
taut  luiui^   auopiciio   iti  luccui  riMhi.  uxulttto  per  mmn^  l.itmu 
n^at  t>fncii  huuiaim   iitilcni   ocmpt-rquc  i^loriu   fri-v^ctit . 


^ 


^ 


^^ 


Alt  (TpiotuHo. 


(s^fiH.t 


I 


•n-?avu*>tn* 


IDobauuio  }.^l^la^Wphiav• , UaJmii^io  (g>fritlnilme, 
vXitutt  Bouiiui  milinioimit     iinm^i-ufcnoinui  ^1Ul^^•cimvJ. 


BOUK  OF   I > 

/:  one,  syr,  oi  ^cicnc  ^     > 

cautious  and  >om'         t  un*  ?n 

uo  under  AnstoiiC  •>  uKiuti  ■ 

i    we  pi*openy  obserye  ceiesiial  phenomena  w  "     - 

.  -':■■:    ..  '.s  which  reii'ilate  the:n'" ; 

''^^'tr,  symbolic  of  Art",  in  nn  !n'^n*'r':if''nn-?I  ntfif-iv^/^    ^A*r\\ 
;ri  ficr  iiice  nor  laiicnn^  i  p,  ^.Tiijerges 

«  the  chiseled  intuition  of  Plotinus  th  (t 


"Love,  beaucy,  joy*   and  worshr;    ir     forever  '^^ 
^  !ing,  and  rebuilding  ii;  c:.?  s  s«     '  '' 


'g' 


-vgain,  uiiaci   the  shieJvJ  ^ 
•1  of  the  Rice  Institute  and  the  [• 
'in   of  Houston,  the  chi^-         ^e  of 

•  t  {S  perhars  the  best  expression  of  t 


r5v  ronrn;; 


T'lm  me  r^ 


rrrr-elc    in'i'-'-int'm, 


sc  historian  ot  the 
:e  Samuel  H.  R^k  .u, 


m  the  tr 


cau^ 


"  T<ather,'  said  Democritus,    v.ouit;  ^    abuovci  t;]e  cause 
T  one  fact  than  become  King  of  the  Persians/  " 


a  declaration  made  at  a  time  when  to  be  kimr  of  the  ! 


ns  was  to  rule  the  world.    In  thur 
:h  centurv^  of  our  era  this  utterance 
for  knowledge  for  its  own  •^'^i'?^ 
.osopher  oi  that  people  who  o 
■n  letters  and  in  art,  the  trustc 


^ant  en: ' 

•  f>  ZPV. 

trie 

Institute  hai  . 


S.pT* 


f»J*r 


5iii  3>llii'vrr; 


Vrin-c- 


"■«*SA. 


,  ■   .N      ■>».,•         n  , 


aiv  '.    ]j! -•  •  qui  ^latuiuiu 

«i>ii[  cum  h't'ti*-'   iiU'ti' viit*  i»ri5trac  tii 

.'r.>5lMiiini  J^m»Trcannrttit:  ninnita. 

i 


#~1 1 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

respectively:  one,  symbolic  of  Science,  screening  her  gaze 
under  the  cautious  and  somewhat  uncertain  lead  of  reason, 
proceeds  under  Aristotle's  dictum: 

"If  we  properly  observe  celestial  phenomena  we  may  dem- 
onstrate the  laws  which  regulate  them'' ; 

the  other,  symbolic  of  Art,  in  an  inspirational  attitude,  with 
neither  fear  in  her  face  nor  faltering  in  her  step,  emerges 
from  the  chiseled  intuition  of  Plotinus  that 

'*Love,  beauty,  joy,  and  worship  are  forever  building, 
unbuilding,  and  rebuilding  in  each  man's  soul." 

Again,  under  the  shield  of  the  State  of  Texas  and  the 
shield  of  the  Rice  Institute  and  the  Flowering  Magnolia  of 
the  City  of  Houston,  the  chief  stone  of  this  building  bears 
what  is  perhaps  the  best  expression  of  the  Spirit  of  Science 
in  any  tongue:  a  Greek  inscription  in  Byzantine  lettering, 
from  the  Praparatto  Evangelica  of  Eusebius  Pamphili,  the 
first  historian  of  the  Church,  which,  in  the  translation  of  the 
late  Samuel  H.  Butcher,  reads: 


"  *Rather,'  said  Democritus,  Vould  I  discover  the  cause 
of  one  fact  than  become  King  of  the  Persians,'  " 

—a  declaration  made  at  a  time  when  to  be  king  of  the  Per- 
sians was  to  rule  the  world.  In  thus  preserving  in  the  twen- 
tieth century  of  our  era  this  utterance  of  exultant  enthusiasm 
for  knowledge  for  its  own  sake,  from  a  representative  phi- 
losopher of  that  people  who  originated  the  highest  standards 
in  letters  and  in  art,  the  trustees  of  the  Institute  have  sought 


r 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

to  express  that  disinterested  devotion  both  to  science  and 
to  humanism  which  the  founder  desired  when  he  dedicated 
the  new  institution  to  the  advancement  of  literature,  science, 

and  art. 

From  inspiration  out  of  the  past  we  pass  to  the  inspiration 
of  the  living,  and  in  particular  to  the  heartening  hail  of  those 
savants  who  have  come  or  stretched  their  hands  across  the 
seas  to  us  on  this  occasion.  Under  sunny  skies  whose  clear 
air  makes  clear  minds  blandly  or  keenly  observant  of  the 
world,  with  winds  fair,  on  the  anniversary  of  Columbus's 
arrival,  we  too  are  setting  out  on  a  voyage  of  discovery  in 
three  small  craft  whose  lines  and  keels  and  turrets  you  have 
had  opportunity  to  examine  and  admire.  We  pledge  your 
standards  at  the  masthead  and  your  spirit  in  the  crew,  but 
until  we  find  cur  treasure  island,  where  faith  and  promise 
brighten  into  performance  and  achievement,  we  have  none 
but  empty  honors  to  offer  you.  Rather  do  we  ask  you  to 
honor  us  still  further  by  allowing  us  to  place  in  the  stateroom 
of  the  flagship  the  following  tablets  in  commemoration  of 
your  visit  to  the  fleet: 

Professor  Rafael  Altamira  y  Crevea,  of  Madrid,  Spain: 
late  Professor  of  the  History  of  Spanish  Law  in  the  Univer- 
sity of  Oviedo;  Director  of  Elementary  Education  in  the 
Spanish  Ministry  of  Public  Instruction;  a  scholar  of  recog- 
nized authority  in  the  history  of  jurisprudence  and  politics, 
and  a  statesman  whose  public  service  has  extended  with  in- 
creasing usefulness  beyond  the  borders  of  his  own  country 
to  the  educational  institutions  of  the  Latin-American  nations. 

Professor  Emile  Borel,  of  Paris,  France:  Director  of 
Scientific  Studies  at  the  Ecole  Normale  Superieure;  Editor- 
in-chief  of  La  Revue  du  Mo'is;  Professor  of  the  Theory  of 


^ 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Functions  at  the  Univ^ersity  of  Paris;  successful  in  the  dis- 
charge of  exacting  duties  as  administrator,  educator,  and 
editor,  his  studies  in  mathematical  analysis  worthily  maintain 
the  standards  of  scientific  work  established  by  the  historic 
line  of  French  analysts  extending  from  Lagrange  and  La- 
place to  Hermite  and  Poincare. 

Senator  Benedetto  Croce,  of  Naples,  Italy:  Life  Senator 
of  the  Italian  Kingdom;  Member  of  several  Royal  Commis- 
sions; Editor  of  La  Critica;  an  original  and  profound 
thinker,  both  constructive  and  critical,  whose  philosophy  of 
the  spirit,  and  in  particular  its  theory  of  sesthetics,  has  com- 
pelled world-wide  attention  on  the  part  of  artists,  philoso- 
phers, and  men  of  letters. 

Professor  Hugo  de  Vries,  of  Amsterdam,  Holland  :  Direc- 
tor of  the  Hortus  Botanicus  and  Professor  of  the  Anatomy 
and  Physiology  of  Plants  in  the  University  of  Amsterdam; 
a  careful  observer  and  patient  investigator  of  the  phenomena 
of  growth  and  change  in  living  things,  whose  studies  and 
experiments  of  a  quarter  of  a  century  have  resulted  in  capi- 
tal contributions  to  the  theories  of  heredity  and  the  origin 
of  species. 

Professor  Sir  Henry  Jones,  of  Glasgow,  Scotland :  Fellow 
of  the  British  Academy;  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy  in 
the  University  of  Glasgow;  Hibbert  Lecturer  on  Meta- 
physics at  Manchester  College,  Oxford;  an  erudite  editor 
and  expositor  of  great  movements  of  reflective  thought  In 
poetry  and  philosophy  and  religion,  and  himself  a  genial 
human  philosopher  who  has  elaborated  a  working  faith  for 
the  social  reformer  and  professed  the  docf:rInes  of  Idealism 
as  a  practical  creed. 


•     I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Privy  Councilor  Baron  Dairoku  Kikuchi,  of  Tokyo,  Ja- 
pan: late  Japanese  Minister  of  Education;  formerly  Pres- 
ident  of  the  University  of  Tokyo,  and  later  of  the  Univer- 
sity of  Kyoto;  recently  Lecturer  on  Japanese  Education  at 
the  University  of  London;  a  publicist  of  distinction  and  a 
close  student  of  affairs,  one  of  the  pioneers  in  the  introduc- 
tion of  Western  learning  into  Japan,  who  has  rendered  his 
native  land  patriotic  service  in  the  organization  and  admin- 
istration of  its  schools  and  universities. 

Professor  John  William  Mackail,  of  London,  England: 
formerly  Fellow  of  Balliol  College  and  later  Professor  of 
Poetry  in  Oxford  University;  a  critic  who  would  interpret 
art  as  art  interprets  life,  favorably  known  by  his  many  pub- 
lished lectures  on  Latin  literature  and  Greek  poetry,  and 
himself  a  poet  whose  English  pure  and  undefiled  is  scarcely 
surpassed  in  our  time. 

Privy  Councilor  Professor  Wilhelm  Ostwald,  of  Gross- 
Bothen,  Germany:  late  Professor  of  Chemistry  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Leipsic;  Nobel  Laureate  in  Chemistry,  1909;  a 
versatile  man  of  science  whose  interests  and  activities  range 
from  art  through  letters  into  metaphysics,  he  is  justly  cele- 
brated as  one  of  the  founders  of  physical  chemistry  and 
equally  well  known  as  the  chief  propagandist  of  a  new  natu- 
ral philosophy  based  on  the  theories  of  energetics. 

The  late  Professor  Henri  Poincare,  of  Paris,  France: 
Member  of  the  French  Academy;  Commander  of  the  Le- 
gion of  Honor;  Professor  of  Mathematics  and  Astronomy 
at  the  University  of  Paris;  distinguished  for  discoveries  of 
far-reaching  significance  in  pure  mathematics,  celestial  me- 
chanics, and  mathematical  physics,  a  varied  intellectual  activ- 

C154:] 


'I  j 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

ity  of  extraordinary  fertility  has  secured  for  him  a  place  of 
eminence  in  letters,  in  science,  and  in  philosophy. 

Professor  Sir  William  Ramsay,  K.C.B.,  of  London,  Eng- 
land: late  Professor  of  Chemistry  at  University  College, 
London;  Nobel  Laureate  in  Chemistry,  1904;  President  of 
the  Seventh  International  Congress  of  Applied  Chemistry; 
a  facile  experimenter  of  boldness  and  ingenuity,  who  has 
devised  new  theories  and  revived  outworn  ones  in  a  series 
of  remarkable  achievements  which  of  themselves  constitute 
an  epoch  in  the  history  of  the  chemical  elements  and  a  per- 
manent chapter  in  the  annals  of  science. 

Professor  Carl  Stjeirmer,  of  Christiania,  Norway:  Mem- 
ber of  the  Norwegian  Academy  of  Sciences;  Associate 
Editor  of  the  Acta  Mathematica;  Professor  of  Pure  Mathe- 
matics in  the  University  of  Christiania;  professorial  suc- 
cessor of  the  illustrious  Norse  geometer,  Marius  Sophus 
Lie,  and  himself  a  master  of  the  methods  of  reckoning  who 
has  drawn  from  the  equations  of  mechanics  a  new  theory  of 
terrestrial  magnetism  revealing  new  explanations  of  the 
lights  of  the  northern  skies  and  kindred  manifestations  in 
the  solar  system. 

Professor  Vito  Volterra,  of  Rome,  Italy:  Life  Senator  of 
the  Italian  Kingdom;  Dean  of  the  Faculty  of  Science  and 
Professor  of  Mathematical  Physics  and  Celestial  Mechanics 
in  the  University  of  Rome;  recently  Lecturer  in  the  Univer- 
sities of  Paris  and  Stockholm;  an  analyst  of  rare  skill  whose 
theories  have  found  manifold  applications  both  in  pure  and 
in  applied  science,  he  has  served  his  country  even  more  di- 
rectly as  an  able  organizer  of  educational  and  scientific  un- 
dertakings national  in  scope  and  international  in  influence. 

1:1553 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


3 


VI 

THE  UNIVERSITY:  ITS  STUDENTS  AND  STAFF 

FROM  the  hands  of  these  illustrious  citizens  of  Amster- 
dam, Glasgow,  Leipsic,  London,  Madrid,  Naples, 
Oxford,  Paris,  Rome,  and  Tokyo,  the  torch  of  civilization's 
great  commission  to  think  and  to  teach  and  to  learn  is  this 
day  passed  on  to  the  sons  and  daughters  of  the  South  and  the 
scholars  and  scientists  trained  at  the  universities  of  Cam- 
bridge, Chicago,  Harvard,  Heidelberg,  Leipsic,  Michigan, 
Oxford,  Pennsylvania,  Yale,  Virginia,  Wisconsin,^  who  con- 
stitute the  charter  membership  of  the  new  institution's  aca- 
demic guild,  a  company  of  students  and  fellows,  lecturers 
and  instructors,  preceptors  and  professors,  who  in  a  com- 
mon society  would  seek  to  realize  a  composite  conception  of 
the  student-universities  and  the  master-universities  of  earlier 
times;  a  voluntary  association  whose  collective  will  for  the 
present  is  to  be  executed  by  one  of  their  number,  who  is  to 

1  Since  this  address  was  written  the  staff  of  the  new  institution  has  grown 
to  some  thirty  members  who  bring  to  its  problems  training,  experience,  or 
honors  from  the  following  universities  and  colleges:  Adelphi,  Auburn,  Bal- 
liol  (Oxford),  Berlin,  Bethany  (West  Virginia),  Birmingham,  Bonn,  Cam- 
bridge, Centre,  Chicago,  Christiania,  Clark,  Columbia,  Cornell,  Davidson, 
Drake,  Emmanuel  (Cambridge),  Georgia,  Gottingen,  Harvard,  Heidelberg, 
Illinois,  Johns  Hopkins,  King's  (London),  Leeds,  Lehigh,  Leipsic,  Liverpool, 
London,  McGill,  Michigan,  Minnesota,  Missouri,  Munich,  Northwestern, 
Oberlin,  Oxford,  Paris,  Pennsylvania,  Pittsburg,  Princeton,  Robert,  Rome, 
Southwestern,  Stanford,  Trinity  (Cambridge),  Tulane,  Union,  Vermont,  Vir- 
ginia, Washington  (College),  Washington  (University  of),  Wesleyan,  Wil- 
liams, Wisconsin,  Wooster,  Yale;  and  the  student  members  of  an  academic 
community  of  about  three  hundred  souls  come  from  some  seventy-five  towns 
in  Texas  and  fifteen  States  of  the  Union,  among  them  holders  of  degrees 
from  Austin,  Georgetown,  Missouri,  Phillips,  Robert,  Union,  and  Vanderbilt, 
and  former  students  of  Austin,  Baylor,  Daniel  Baker,  Georgia  School  of 
Technology,  Howard  Payne,  Illinois,  Lehigh,  Marion  Institute,  North  Texas 
Normal,  Oklahoma  (Agricultural  and  Mechanical),  Randolph  Macon,  St. 
Mary's,  Sam  Houston  Normal,  Simmons  (Texas),  Smith,  Sophie  Newcomb, 
Southwestern,  Sweet  Briar,  Texas  (Agricultural  and  Mechanical),  Texas 
(University  of),  Trinity  (Texas),  United  States  Military  Academy. 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

play  the  role  of  middleman  between  the  public  and  the  uni- 
versity, the  trustees  and  the  staff,  the  staff  and  the  students, 
the  students  and  their  parents  and  guardians;  a  society  of 
scholars  which  from  the  first  aspires  to  be  "a  partnership  in 
all  science,  a  partnership  in  all  art,  a  partnership  in  every 
virtue  and  in  all  perfection'';  and  "as  the  ends  of  such  a 
partnership  cannot  be  obtained  in  many  generations,"  to  ap- 
propriate still  further  Burke's  conception  of  the  state,  *'it 
becomes  a  partnership  between  those  who  are  living,  those 
who  are  dead,  and  those  who  are  to  be  born." 

Democracy  of  science  and  republic  of  letters,  nowhere 
mere  empty  phrases,  meet  in  this  partnership  an  unusual 
opportunity  for  translation  into  living  actualities.  Except 
for  the  organization  indispensable  to  the  efficient  discharge 
of  business,  subject  only  to  limitations  of  character  and  in- 
tellect, here  are  leisure  and  work  and  liberty,  freedom  in 
initiative,  freedom  in  invention,  the  freedom  that  alone  in- 
vites inspiration  to  thought  and  action.  As  at  the  Univer- 
sity of  Virginia  from  the  earliest  days,  and  more  lately  at  the 
University  of  Chicago,  distinctions  of  academic  rank  and 
title  will  appear  in  official  calendars  but  find  no  place  in 
classroom  or  on  the  campus.  For  purposes  of  organization 
and  administration  each  member  of  the  university  will  natu- 
rally fall  into  one  or  more  of  three  grand  divisions:  Science, 
Humanity,  Technology.  As  has  already  been  intimated, 
each  of  these  divisions  will  eventually  consist  of  several 
faculties :  under  Science  we  should  have  mathematics,  phys- 
ics, chemistry,  biology,  psychology,  and  so  on,  together  with 
their  applications  in  the  fields  of  engineering,  economics, 
education,  and  so  forth;  under  Humanity  would  appear  his- 
tory, philosophy,  letters,  politics,  and  so  on  to  art  and  re- 
ligion; while  Technology  would  embrace  science,  humanity, 
and  technology  as  professions  of  teaching  or  research,  the 

1:157:1 


•ir 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

older  learned  professions  of  law,  medicine,  theology,  and 
the  newer  ones  from  engineering,  architecture,  and  agricul- 
ture on  down  to  the  more  recent  acquisitions  of  commerce, 
banking,  and  public  administration. 

The  first  larger  divisions  of  the  Staff  of  the  new  univer- 
sity to  assume  form  will  be  a  faculty  of  science  and  a  faculty 
of  letters.     In  the  discharge  of  their  functions  these  bodies 
will  be  aided  by  administrative  committees  constituted  of 
their  own  members.    To  the  duties  of  the  officers  of  certain 
of  these  committees  deans  will  succeed  when  the  growth  of 
the  institution  shall  have  called  for  more  elaborate  and  more 
highly  differentiated  machinery  of  organization  and  adminis- 
tration.    Administrative  work,  of  increasing  complexity  in 
any  modern  university,  is  likely  to  make  frequent  calls  on  the 
time  and  judgment  of  its  ablest  and  best  trained  members  in 
the  first  days  of  a  new  one,  but  it  is  hoped  to  reduce  the 
burden  of  these  demands  considerably  by  consistent  and 
sharp  differentiation  between  the  constructive  and  critical, 
and  the  clerical.    To  meet  the  direct  duties  of  administration 
in   schools    and    departments,    laboratories    and   museums, 
chairmen  will  be  appointed  annually  and  without  regard  to 
seniority.    The  Staff  will  assemble,  and  at  regular  intervals, 
in  at  least  three  different  series  of  meetings:  scientific,  social, 
and  business.     Through  the  first  of  these  the  work  of  its 
members  in  the  capacity  of  creator,  critic,  or  censor  will  be 
assessed  in  its  relations  to  productive  scholarship;  by  the 
second,  the  university  will  be  kept  in  intimate  touch  with  the 
life  of  its  community,  and  many  a  plan  may  trace  its  start  to 
a  bowl  of  punch  or  the  pouring  of  tea;  and  finally,  through 
the  third  of  these  series  of  meetings  the  Staff  will  consider, 
subject  to  the  approval  of  the  trustees,  the  conduct  of  the 
academic  life  of  the  university  in  respect  of  scholarship, 
research,  teaching,  and  public  service. 


TO 


9    I  1 


'!?■ 


'"'^"'iftf  ti^% 


UfrC 


m*  a^n^tilttiion  &a*«^  u|.«&r;  jwic-. 
!o  dixicTCiii,  riva;tvi  and  cortiial  h 

fcTiciiaiic^''  upon  iwr  oppcriutniieii  *irK>  sr^ 
fjruiHcn  of  her  vlans 


T 


■or  ^vf-  ^i  ^''''i  V*'. 


^^^$^5^  /Pp^^^ 


A<-' 


//^;  4- 


older  learnt* J  pre 

the  - -^"^'-  -^ 
ture  on  aov 

The  ^irst 


XSTITUTE 

,;      ,'     '  "cine,  theology,  and 

e- rin<T,        'litecture,  and  agricul- 
rccer.c  acquibiauiis  of  commerce, 

^^  of  the  new  univer- 
facii        t  science  and  a  faculty 

">f  tl.-. ,   ^nnrrions  these  bodies 

istrauve  CO  onstituica  of 

Hiit^es  of  the  officers  of  certain 

suuxcu  vviich  the  growth  of 

'    '       ire  elaborate  and  more 

mg  compkxuy  m 
-nW  to  r'nkf*  freouent  calls  on  the 
fjiyjj- ^r  aincd  members  in 

t^^c  ^Tr«;t  <hv<  .w  one,  but  it  is  hoped  to  reduce  the 

burden  or  ir  u^cnuinds  considerably^  by  consistent  and 
sharp  differentiation  between  the  constructive  and  critical, 
and  the  clerical.  To  meet  the  direct  duties  of  administration 
in  schools  and  departments,  laboratories  and  museums, 
chairrn'^'*^  ^ 
seniority, 
in  at  lens 


'  r-s 


Du^^mess. 


pninffd  inniinHv  and  without  regard  to 
wiJi  HSSCinDic,  and  at  regular  intervals, 

eetin^s:  scientific,  social, 
the  work  of  its 


}U 


the 


'uversicv 


'ri***i 


SULij!^- 

academii 


:]., 


\c  universr 

md  public  sern-i 


'ensor  will  be 

.T-^hip:  by  the 

ich  with  the 

"race  its  start  to 

nally,  through 

itt  will  consider, 

^  '"onduct  of  the 

ct  of  scholarship, 


dStiiurrsttP  nf 


TO 


broiwin 


I  tmnnrpmnil  nil  f  itrrnfum^rinirr 
m\h  1  rt 

X  £      C|rcctim^  and  (rc>u»)ratufati«?n 

^        upoT}  the  opcnint^  of  f^cr  ^art^  Ic  putl 


\C  Ui-C. 


I'oni'incc^  Jhol  in  Ipc  ficW  c^  acd^cn^xc  *crc'icc  ihcrc  i*  cc^iiai  room 
an^  cquol  ncc^  [or  tl^c  sLiJc  f-upy'ovlcb  •^tnic'crs-ik' anb  |or 

to  ^cncrcuS'  riiMirq  cixMi  cordial  |cHoa'£>bip  a  nca-'  =-i*icr  anb  frici?^ 
wxit)  fcUcilafion  upon  bcr  opporlun'ttics  arib  «oi"5C|utnc  hope  for  il^ 
Jruttion  of  \rtcr  p(a^^. 

n  IratiinmiE  wltfrrof  tf^r. .«  ^i  .ni.  .I^.  faicr. 

.  upon  ll)t-.  jirdl  bai<  o['  C^lotcr.  Clnno'Oomim.  1?1'2,  ll^c^ 
5«af  of  lr><2ilnic'cr*iitj  of  ilHsjcon^in  anb  Inc  nonb  of  U^  t'^rcsibcnl 


I 


u  /'^u^  ^A 


M 


JFrrrrturv 


I 


\ 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

In  America  the  spirit  of  scientific  investigation  has,  cer- 
tainly until  recently,  found  its  best  expression  in  the  college 
and  the  university,  and  among  the  men  of  science  associated 
with  these  foundations.  To  be  sure,  research  institutions, 
as  for  example  the  Scientific  Bureaus  of  the  United  States 
Government,  the  Carnegie  Institution  of  Washington,  the 
Rockefeller  Institute  in  New  York,  and,  earliest  of  all,  the 
Smithsonian  Institution  in  Washington,  independent  of  uni- 
versities, have  abundantly  justified  their  existence  among  us; 
but  no  university  can  live  without  the  vitalizing  reaction  of 
original  investigation.  Even  in  the  Rice  Institute's  days  of 
hewing  of  wood  and  mixing  of  mortar,  work  of  investigation 
is  not  to  be  allowed  to  suffer  from  any  inconvenience  due  to 
inadequate  provision  of  library  and  laboratory  apparatus. 
The  first  investigators  may  feel  their  isolation  and  the 
absence  of  atmosphere,  but  in  this  day  of  rapid  transit, 
speedy  dissemination  of  intelligence,  and  manifold  multi- 
plicity of  periodical  scientific  publications,  isolation  offers  no 
excuse  for  inactivity,  for  one  cannot  spend  half  an  hour  in 
the  perusal  of  a  first-class  scientific  periodical  without  think- 
ing of  at  least  half  a  year's  things  to  do. 

To  the  privileges  of  research  and  the  duties  of  adminis- 
tration must  be  added  the  pleasures  of  teaching  and  public 
lecturing,  and  if  the  last  phase  of  this  cycle  of  action  is  to  be 
efl'icient  the  schedules  of  daily  and  weekly  performances 
should  not  be  too  heavy.  Moreover,  the  time-tables  of  lec- 
ture and  laboratory  arrangements  In  each  subject  of  instruc- 
tion or  investigation  will  be  so  framed  that  the  first-year 
students  shall  be  brought  directly  under  the  tutelage  of  the 
senior  members  of  the  university:  here  again  we  are  appro- 
priating an  Idea  of  Thomas  Jefferson's  for  the  University  of 
Virginia.  Furthermore,  this  very  work  of  teaching  and  pub- 
lic lecturing  will  Itself  be  Inspired  by  the  temper  of  scientific 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

investigation;  for,  as  it  seems  to  me,  the  scientific  movement 
of  the  nineteenth  century  has  no  more  striking  lesson  for  the 
twentieth  than  that  an  inquiring  mind  is  the  safest  guide  for 
an  inquiring  mind:  that  the  best  man  to  lead  the  learner 
from  the  unknown  to  the  known  is  the  man  who  is  continually 
leading  himself  from  the  unknown  to  the  known,  not  only  in 
point  of  encyclopedic  and  specialized  knowledge,  but  also  in 
point  of  new  knowledge  contributed  by  himself  to  the  store 
of  learning.  Was  Burke  not  right  when  he  said  that  *'the 
method  of  teaching  which  approached  most  nearly  to  the 
method  of  investigation  is  incomparably  the  best,  since,  not 
content  with  serving  up  a  few  barren  and  lifeless  truths,  it 
leads  to  the  stock  out  of  which  they  grew;  it  tends  to  set  the 
learner  on  the  track  of  invention  and  to  direct  him  into  those 
paths  in  which  the  author  has  made  his  own  discoveries"? 
And  Burke  said  this  half  a  century  before  the  scientific 
renaissance.  Nor  was  Burke  an  impractical  dreamer,  for,  in 
his  speech  on  the  petition  of  the  Unitarians,  he  also  said: 
''No  rational  man  ever  did  govern  himself  by  abstractions 
and  universals.  ...  A  statesman  differs  from  a  professor 
in  a  university.  The  latter  has  only  the  general  view  of 
society.  ...  A  statesman,  never  losing  sight  of  principles, 
is  to  be  guided  by  circumstances;  and,  judging  contrary  to 
the  exigencies  of  the  moment,  he  may  ruin  his  country  for- 


ever. 


n 


Finally,  to  the  energy  and  Invention  of  the  planner,  to  the 
enthusiasm  and  initiative  of  the  producer,  to  the  erudition 
and  imagination  of  the  professor,  must  be  added  the  energy 
and  enthusiasm  and  erudition  of  the  preceptor,  whose  power 
of  summary  statement  in  exposition,  whose  infinite  capacity 
for  details  in  explanation,  whose  persistent  example  and  oc- 
casional exhortation  in  manners  and  morals,  must  conspire 
with  strength  of  personality  to  win  and  guide  the  student's 

[i6o] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

interest  in  his  reading  and  writing  quite  as  much  as  in  his 
thinking  and  in  the  meeting  of  his  formal  obligations  to  the 
university's  standards  and  scheme  of  studies.  This  order  of 
ideas  goes  back  to  a  modification  of  the  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge tutorial  system  which  President  Wilson  Introduced  at 
Princeton  University  several  years  ago.  And  the  finest  thing 
about  the  introduction  of  President  Wilson's  preceptorial 
system  at  Princeton  University  was  not  the  bringing  of  forty 
preceptors  to  Princeton  at  one  blow,  but  rather  the  calling  of 
every  professor  of  the  university  to  personal  participation  In 
the  plan  as  preceptor.  The  success  of  that  system  at  Prince- 
ton Is  to  be  attributed  to  this  professorial  participation  no 
less  than  to  the  larger  part  taken  in  the  execution  of  the  plan 
by  the  specially  appointed  junior  members  of  the  staff. 

Thus  It  appears  that  a  professor's  work  Is  never  done. 
Probably  no  expenditure  of  his  time  meets  with  smaller  re- 
turn than  that  employed  on  editorial  duties.  Moreover,  In 
a  time  when  the  world  Is  flooded  with  printing  one  should 
hesitate  to  increase  the  number  of  printed  pages.  Neverthe- 
less, In  order  to  facilitate  the  prompt  publication  and  dis- 
tribution of  the  products  of  Its  library,  laboratory,  and  lec- 
ture activities,  the  new  university  proposes  to  maintain  a  few 
periodical  publications  of  Its  own.  Perhaps  the  most  serious 
of  these  will  be  the  Annals  of  Letters^  Science,  and  Art,  to 
appear  ultimately  In  several  series,  carrying  the  contributions 
of  its  own  and  other  scholars  to  knowledge.  Simultaneously 
with  these  quarterly  quartos  there  will  appear  The  Rice  In- 
stitute Pamphlets,  in  octavo  form,  at  least  four  times  a  year, 
containing  occasional  addresses,  courses  of  lectures,  and 
smaller  papers  of  current  and  timely  Interest.  And  finally, 
at  least  for  the  present,  the  Circulars  of  Information  con- 
cerning the  Rice  Institute,  In  the  numbers  of  which  will  be 
published  the  annual  calendar,  the  programmes  of  study. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

and  other  announcements  of  the  undergraduate  and  gradu- 
ate life  of  the  institution. 

'T  is  a  bold  man  who  would  take  upon  himself  the  gift 
of  prophecy,  but  from  the  birth  of  the  science  of  the  stars 
to  the  physics  of  the  ether  and  the  ion  it  has  been  the  prov- 
ince of  the  professor  to  prophesy;  sometimes,  as  the  prophet 
of  old,  to  ''stand  like  a  wall  of  bronze,  and  an  iron  pillar, 
against  the  whole  land,  against  the  kings  of  Judah  and  the 
princes  thereof";  but  always  striving,  in  the  spirit  of  a  mod- 
ern philosopher  whose  noble  words  might  be  turned  into  a 
command  and  written  over  the  door  of  every  library,  labor- 
atory, and  lecture-hall  as  a  motto  for  all  seekers  after  truth, 
to  "cherish  as  a  vital  principle  an  unbounded  spirit  of  enquiry 
and  ardency  of  expectation,  unfetter  the  mind  from  preju- 
dices of  every  kind,  leave  it  open  and  free  to  every  impres- 
sion of  higher  nature  which  it  is  susceptible  of  receiving- 
guarding  only  against  self-deception  by  a  habit  of  strict 
investigation— encourage  rather  than  suppress  everything 
that  can  offer  the  prospect  of  a  hope  beyond  the  present 
obscure  and  unsatisfactory  state.  The  character  of  the  true 
philosopher  is  to  hope  all  things  not  impossible  and  to  be- 
lieve all  things  not  unreasonable.  .  .  .  Humility  of  preten- 
sion no  less  than  confidence  of  hope  is  what  best  becomes  his 
character."  It  is  the  business  of  the  professor  quite  as  much 
as  it  is  the  business  of  the  successful  promoter  to  get  results 
out  of  the  future  by  anticipating  them  through  his  knowledge 
of  the  past  and  his  understanding  of  the  present.  On  such 
an  occasion  as  this  it  is  hard  not  to  prophesy.  This  academic 
festival  provides  the  first  alignment  of  the  Rice  Institute  with 
other  institutions.  It  is  the  placing  of  a  new  university  on  the 
map  of  the  earlier  universities.  The  new  institution  comes  as 
a  rival  to  none,  as  a  competitor  of  none,  but  as  a  child  hoping 
to  grow  in  favor,  to  gain  the  confidence  and  to  win  the  re- 

1:162] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

spect  of  older  foundations.  It  is  the  advent  of  a  man-child 
that  we  have  witnessed,  and  some  of  us  believe  we  have  dis- 
covered in  its  form  the  features  and  bones  of  a  giant.  And  I 
like  to  think  that  within  ten  or  twenty  vears  the  staff  and 
students  of  whom  I  am  now  speaking  will  have  grown  to  be 
a  residential  community  of  at  least  a  thousand  souls— or, 
say  a  staff  of  a  hundred  members  and  a  society  of  students  a 
thousand  strong.  And  the  year  that  number,  one  thousand, 
has  been  reached — a  graduate  group  of  two  hundred  and  an 
undergraduate  group  of  eight  hundred— we  propose  to  say 
that  in  the  year  following  only  the  best  thousand  among  the 
applicants  for  admission,  whether  old  or  new,  shall  be  re- 
ceived, and  to  persevere  in  this  process  of  selection  year  by 
year  for  another  score  of  years.  This  determination  of  ours 
has  been  accorded  hearty  support  by  many  of  our  guests  on 
this  occasion ;  for  if  they  have  urged  one  thing  above  another 
upon  us,  that  one  thing  has  been  to  keep  the  standards  up 
and  the  numbers  down.  It  is  through  such  standards  in 
scholarship  and  service  severely  maintained,  and  by  a 
process  of  selection  through  these  standards  of  culture  and 
character,  that  the  exceptional  man  is  likely  to  be  discovered. 
And,  after  all,  is  not  this  last  discovery  one  of  the  highest 
forms  of  service  within  our  aim? 

For  the  maintenance  of  these  high  standards  we  have 
promising  material  with  which  to  begin.  These  first  stu- 
dents who  have  come  to  us  have  come  to  us  on  faith;  they 
have  left  the  beaten  paths  to  established  institutions;  they 
have  left  the  company  of  their  fellows  to  come  to  a  new 
institution;  and  to  this  institution  they  have  come  unsolicited 
and  unheralded;  they  have  thus  shown  some  independence  of 
judgment,  something  of  initiative,  somewhat  of  the  spirit  of 
adventure,  and  these  are  the  things  by  which  men  are  judged 
and  singled  out  from  among  their  fellows  at  every  stage  of 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

the  game  of  life.  For  these  reasons  we  believe  that  we  make 
no  mistake  in  banking  on  these  young  men  and  women  and 
the  future  of  the  new  university  at  their  hands. 

And  if  we  hope  that  this  academic  community  is  to  be  dis- 
tinguished by  high  standards  in  scholarship,  we  also  hope 
that  the  student  life  of  the  community  is  to  be  equally  distin- 
guished for  its  system  of  self-government.  The  latter  sys- 
tem is  already  assuming  form  through  the  constitution  of  an 
honor  system  for  the  conduct  of  examinations,  and  the  insti- 
tution of  student  government  in  the  first  halls  of  residence.^ 
With  these  two  strong  determinants  of  public  opinion,  the 
extension  of  student  control  to  the  entire  campus  should 
prove  to  be  a  comparatively  simple  undertaking.  In  the 
so-called  honor  system  in  examinations  there  is  nothing  novel 
to  many  i\merican  institutions.  Two  generations  ago  such 
a  system  grew  into  existence  at  the  University  of  Virginia, 
and  some  years  later  found  a  congenial  atmosphere  at 
Princeton.  Since  these  beginnings  it  has  grown  into  the  life 
of  many  other  colleges.  On  the  other  hand.  In  some  univer- 
sities it  has  been  tried  without  success.  In  the  first  days  of  a 
new  one,  however,  when  all  traditions  and  customs  are  in  the 
making.  It  promises  well.  And  because  of  this  same  free- 
dom—that is  to  say,  freedom  from  tradition— the  Rice  In- 
stitute is  pre-eminently  fortunately  situated  to  undertake  the 
building  of  halls  of  residence  as  an  integral  part  of  Its  pro- 
gramme. As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  residential  college  Idea  Is 
a  prominent  one  In  the  plans  of  the  new  institution.  At  the 
time  these  plans  were  being  made  the  Idea  was  stirring  in  the 
air  about  many  of  the  older  universities.    It  was  at  Princeton 

iThe  Honor  Council  this  year  (1914-15)  has  representatives  from  three 
classes,  and  in  another  year  will  have  become  a  permanent  institution  in  the 
university.  In  the  conduct  of  examinations  during  the  first  tv^o  years  of  the 
institution's  existence,  this  council  has  been  vigilant  in  its  care.  The  govern- 
ment of  the  residential  college  is  in  the  hands  of  an  elective  board  of  repre- 
sentatives, chosen  one  each  from  the  ten  or  a  dozen  separate  houses  into 
which  the  hall  of  residence  is  divided. 

[164;] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

that  President  Wilson  proposed  to  give  the  idea  concrete 
form  in  the  reorganization  of  the  social  life  of  that  ancient 
seat  of  learning.    The  programme  there  suggested  was  an 
adaptation  of  the  English  residential  college  to  American 
undergraduate  life.    A  similar  plan  had  been  elaborated  by 
Dean  West  some  years  earlier  for  a  future  school  of  gradu- 
ate studies  at  Princeton,  and  the  latter  plan  has  come  to 
realization  In  the  Gothic  halls  and  towers  of  the  Princeton 
Graduate  College  about  to  be  dedicated.    From  Oxford  and 
Cambridge  the  idea  goes  back  to  the  University  of  Paris,  the 
mother  university  of  all  modern  ones,  which  consisted  orig- 
inally of  residential  colleges.     In  the  Paris  of  the  present 
day  the  type  reappears  in  the  Ecole  Normale  Superieure, 
founded  by  Napoleon,  and  in  the  more  recent  Fondatlon 
Thiers.      Moreover,   In   Berlin   an  original   suggestion   of 
Fichte's  in  his  scheme  for  a  university  has  led  lately  to  pro- 
posals for  such  a  development  at  the  university  which  bears 
the  name  of  that  city;  while  at  the  same  time  in  our  own 
country  the  University  of  Wisconsin  has  plans  for  residential 
halls  already  worked  out  and  awaiting  funds  from  the  State ; 
Cornell  University  has  undertaken  such  a  plan,  the  first 
buildings  of  which  are  soon  to  be  constructed;  and  Harvard 
has  planned  for  the  freshmen  of  the  university  a  group  of 
such  colleges  to  be  ready  for  early  occupancy. 

The  first  of  these  experiments  in  college  democracy  at 
Rice  finds  its  dedication  on  the  corner-stone  of  its  building, 
where,  under  the  shield  of  the  Institute,  there  appears  the 
simple  Inscription:  'To  the  freedom  of  sound  learning  and 
the  fellowship  of  youth.''  Here  is  being  realized  an  old 
seventeenth-century  definition  of  education— William  of 
Wykeham's  'Ue  making  of  a  man."^    For  here  In  the  resi- 

iThis  definition  of  education  was  made  the  subject  of  his  inaugural  dis- 
course at  Princeton  University  by  President  Hibben,  at  whose  recent  mstalla- 

L  165:1 


•    4r«»rm"T8S^ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

dential  college  men  liv^e  in  freedom,  checked  only  by  self- 
mastery  and  gentle  manners,  a  freedom  of  the  kind  that 
Goethe  meant  when  he  said,  *'He  alone  attains  to  life  and 
freedom  who  daily  conquers  them  anew";  here  they  grow  in 
wisdom,  not  alone  in  the  wisdom  of  books  but  also  in  the 
wisdom  of  work  and  service;  here  they  find  the  incom- 

tion  there  appeared  for  the  first  timp  in  an  American  academic  procession 
an  official  representative  of  the  Rice  Institute. 

In  many  respects  the  present  address  is  a  chronicle  of  first  things— first 
either  in  point  of  time  or  in  point  of  import. 

The  first  scientific  papers  by  a  member  of  the  Rice  Institute  were  presented 
to  the  American  Mathematical  Society  and  the  American  Philosophical 
Society. 

The  first  foreign  reference  to  the  new  foundation  was  made  by  Dr.  Henry 
van  Dyke  in  a  public  lecture  at  the  Sorbonne  in  his  course  on  "The  Spirit 
of  America"  as  visiting  professor  at  the  University  of  Paris,  in  which, 
speaking  of  the  development  of  education  in  our  country,  he  said:  "Nor  has 
this  process  of  assimilation  been  confined  to  American  ideas  and  models. 
European  methods  have  been  carefully  studied  and  adapted  to  the  needs 
and  conditions  of  the  United  States.  I  happen  to  know  of  a  new  institution 
of  learning  which  has  been  recently  founded  in  Texas  by  a  gift  of  ten  mil- 
lions of  dollars.  The  president-elect  is  a  scientific  man  who  has  already 
studied  in  France  and  Germany.  .  .  .  But  before  he  touches  the  building 
and  organization  of  his  new  Institute,  he  is  sent  to  Europe  for  a  year  to  see 
the  oldest  and  the  newest  and  the  best  that  has  been  done  there.  In  fact,  the 
Republic  of  Learning  to-day  is  the  true  Cosmopolis.  It  knows  no  barriers  of 
nationality.  It  seeks  truth  and  wisdom  everywhere,  and  wherever  it  finds 
them,  it  claims  them  for  its  own." 

The  first  printed  scientific  papers  to  be  dated  from  the  Rice  Institute  were 
published  in  the  "American  Journal  of  Mathematics,"  the  "Cambridge 
Journal  of  Pure  and  Applied  Mathematics,"  the  Proceedings  of  the  American 
Philosophical  Society,  and  "Science."  The  first  address  by  a  member  of  the 
Institute  was  a  vice-presidential  address  before  the  Baltimore  meeting  of  the 
American  Association  for  the  Advancement  of  Science,  which  included  some 
results  of  a  paper  presented  previously  at  the  Dublin  meeting  of  the  British 
Association  for  the  Advancement  of  Science.  The  first  literary  addresses 
written  at  the  Rice  Institute  were  a  Phi  Beta  Kappa  address  on  the  mind 
and  temper  of  science,  delivered  at  the  University  of  Virginia  in  June,  1910, 
and  a  commencement  address  on  the  spirit  of  learning,  delivered  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Texas  in  June,  191 1. 

The  first  scientific  paper  to  go  out  from  the  laboratories  of  the  Institute 
was  one  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  H.  A.  Wilson,  published  in  the  Proceedings  of  the 
Royal  Society  of  London;  while  the  first  scientific  paper  to  be  published  by 
a  student  of  the  Institute  was  one  by  Mr.  Eric  R.  Lyon,  an  undergraduate, 
which  appeared  in  the  "American  Physical  Review." 

The  first  book  to  carry  "Rice  Institute"  on  its  title-page  was  Mr.  J.  8. 
Huxley's  Cambridge  manual  on  "The  Individual  in  the  Animal  Kingdom." 
The  second  such  book  was  Mr.  A.  LI.  Hughes's  "Photo-electricity,"  issued  by 
the  Cambridge  University  Press,  and  now  in  process  of  translation  into 
German  in  Germany.  Books  from  the  pens  of  Mr.  Guerard  and  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Tsanoff,  though  prepared  elsewhere,  have  appeared  in  print  since  their 
authors  came  to  Houston.     Furthermore,  Mr.  Wilson  has  a  new  book  in  the 

1:166:] 


<tljc  OrijrtnrclUir  ttnb  ^citatr  ofttljc  yitiwcraitu 
of  ^ubncji  to  tijc  yrcaibcnt  aiib  QTouitcU 
of  (tljv  ilicc  iJuatitutc.  Donaton,  itvxaB. 


(Jj^u    tl)i*    iimnc  of  tl|c  Ocnnti-  of  (Tljc    ICniucrsttit 
^^    of    Onbiicij,     3     tliaiilt     tl|i*     livcsU^rnt     nub 
"w'      ffvu«ti-c»  of  il)c   Iticr  ^iietitutc  for  the  inut- 
tntion  to  sciib  n  vc|u-renitattui'  to  tijc  ilnniiouvnl 
(Cri-rnioitice    tljnt    nvr   to    itlcbrati-    ti)r 'l>cninntu0 
of  it»  iiuccr.       ^t  tliia  nvcnt  bistaiirr  it  i«  bitTi- 
^ult   in   »o   «l)ort    nti   ititrvtuit    to    niiilu-    tIjc  itfcra- 
•rtvu  arrnuorturnts  foi-  nunilinit  oitrsrlttre  of  tJje 
Ifonoiir ;     luit     luc     Howe     nv♦H^«^>tc^     our     of    ottr 
numlicr.     |Jt»iUirtm     fi.    |JLinrrcii,     Xi-^.,    UUj.^c. 
Pl.3ii»t. «:.(!?..   ClioUie   ^U-ofrssor    of   (^tiixiuccrino, 
iioiu    troucHijut    in    (Pnropc    niih    ^inrrica,   to  net 
a*    our    bclcontc,     if    tjis    arrnuitrturuts    permit. 
^l)oulb,   liouirtxr,  tl)i»  tic   iuivo9«iblc.  nub  •Ijoulb 
wc  fitil    to    be   v<^vsounUij    rrvrc»cutcb.  nic   ucucr- 
tl|clc69    iu    nil    aiuirritu    ^c•ire    to    trnuauiit    our 
covMnl    (trcctiuiift     llu^    ooo5    utiei)ca    to    tljc    uciu 
|(uiiu-v«itij  ;    au^   to  rxvrrvs   our    tjopre    tljot    tljc 
•Vli*«»i»«b    nu»v«ci»   uubcr  uiljicl)  it    i*   c«trtbli«l|cb. 
lunij    be   ouev«l^n^olueb    by    tl)e   eelebrity    tijnt    it 
tierenftcr    nttaiu*,    nub    thnt    tt»    portiou    of  pro- 
motiuit  tlie  iutelleetunl  iutercets  of  tunuhiub  nutu 
be    rentiseb     in    tl)e     nci)ieueuteut«    of    lt»    future 
tencbers  nub  nluuiui.      llor  eou  we  refrniu  frout 
couorntulntiu(i     n     liiubrrb     comnuuiitu     wliiclj, 
tl)ouiii|    olbcr    tbnn  tl|o»e    iu    tbe    Goutljeru  pens, 
i«,    Hhe    tlfcnt,    n   new    urowtli   iu    n    nen»    tworib, 
in     tije     euii(ti}teueb     liberotitij     of    it*     prioate 
ritiieuB  tljnt   Ija*   iu  *o    mnuy   cn»c«    leb  to  tl)r 
muuificeut   eubotoment    of  culture  nub  resenrcl), 
onb  tlint  uout    once  more  receit>e«   to   concpirtt- 
ou«  an  iliufttrntiou. 

Hie  tru»t  tljat  in  remote  (ieurrntiou«  tlje  f^iee 
fuBtitttte  mnij  »till  be  fttlftUiu£i  lt»  benificeut 
tnia«iou   iu   nil  procperity   nub  fnir  fnme. 


i///  nhi<  (fi^*  If  't 


Ct|anc«Uor. 


/^Ch^LtCL  %JcUjUyt^ 


jlctlnfi  y(0i«trar. 


wmtmmm 


femmmmmmmeaasMiK^^-^ 


»v:i!Tn    corn'';?  ind    ioyou>   conri- 

:  :€   fearless  boi 

J  toilowirjg  lines  ■  <  ^ 

^or  was  it  least 
rft<   in  later  veav^ 
'h  dcadtmic  insAiuits 
111  it  thev  held  somethwif  up  to  \ 

.^uiiL^  j^hsi  t,  an  Stood  T 

..  rfround;  that  vje  were  brothers  ali 


:i    "iiy  i^   rr:  rn  m  '  •  'f*  *  t  \' 


e\  fUfi 

t>fn  lav  1  tha  -f 

n  tifhi  iitu's  mere  in  iC^^  c^io^m 

j  prn<^per(ifJS 

ernes  of  G  :<ter'ious 

nanifesti>,  .^  .w.         ^r-z-rr 
.ozuship  with  venciai}it  uoofis, 
^inn  the  Prond  zvorkint/^  of 
huuiin  tibcTiy. 

•ihal! 
.    n  society  a  coiiuiiun  lite  uau^ 

Danicll,   Evans,   and    Guerar»i   \ 
n<i  Dumble  ha\e  courses  of 
ript  awaiting  puWication 
\  Daniell,  Evans,  Grn 
'^    have    cootributcd 

• %\ritten  at  the  ne-^ 

.ts  not  attempt  to  be  < 
of  the  igiitnHoj 

;id   other 
been 


L^'^/ J 


lore^ 


l'    > 


'j'-Mn2 


^•. 


f-r^i/ 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

parable  fellowship,  warm  comradeship,  and  joyous  com- 
panionships of  college  years;  here  they  live  in  the  uncon- 
querable enthusiasm,  the  fearless  courage,  the  boundless 
hope  of  youth.  A  faithful  characterization  of  the  spirit  of 
the  hall  is  found  in  the  following  lines  from  Wordsworth's 
"Prelude": 

Nor  was  it  least 
Of  many  benefits,  in  later  years 
Derived  from  academic  institutes 
And  rules,  that  they  held  something  up  to  view 
Of  a  Republic,  where  all  stood  thus  far 
Upon  equal  ground;  that  we  were  brothers  all 
In  honour,  as  in  one  community, 
Scholars  and  gentlemen;  where,  furthermore, 
Distinction  open  lay  to  all  that  came. 
And  wealth  and  titles  were  in  less  esteem 
Than  talents,  worth,  and  prosperous  industry. 
Add  unto  this,  subservience  from  the  first 
To  presences  of  God's  mysterious  power 
Made  manifest  in  Nature's  sovereignty. 
And  fellowship  with  venerable  books. 
To  sanction  the  proud  workings  of  the  soul. 
And  mountain  liberty. 

In  this  first  residential  hall  students  and  staff  are  already 
living  in  a  common  society  a  common  life  under  conditions 

press,  Messrs.  Caldwell,  Daniell,  Evans,  and  Guerard  have  books  in  the 
making,  Messrs.  Axson  and  Dumble  have  courses  of  public  lectures  on  liter- 
ature and  science  in  manuscript  awaiting  publication  in  the  Pamphlets  of  the 
Rice  Institute,  while  Messrs.  Daniell,  Evans,  Graustein,  Guerard,  Hughes, 
Huxley,  Reinke,  and  Tsanoff  have  contributed  to  literary  and  scientific 
periodicals  papers  which  were  written  at  the  new  university. 

Though  this  recital  does  not  attempt  to  be  exhaustive,  no  account  of  the 
initial  scholarly  work  of  the  new  institution  should  fail  to  mention  the  in- 
augural lectures  and  other  performances  of  the  formal  opening  to  which 
reference  has  already  been  made.  The  omission  here  of  details  concerning 
the  first  Rice  Institute  university  extension  lectures  will  be  supplied  in  a 
subsequent  paragraph  of  this  paper. 


-«! 


h 

■ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 
the  most  democratic.     They  sit  at  a  common  table;  they 
lounge   in   common   club-rooms;   they   frequent   the   same 
cloisters ;  in  games  they  meet  again  upon  the  same  playing- 
fields.     The   quadrangle   is  self-governed,   with  no   other 
machinery  of  government  than  is  necessary  to  conduct  a 
gentlemen's  club.    To  the  quadrangle,  as  to  the  college,  the 
only  possible  passports  are  intellect  and  character.     In  the 
quadrangle,  as  on  the  campus,  the  business  of  life  is  to  be 
regulated  by  no  other  code  than  the  common  understanding 
by  which  gentlefolk  determine  their  conduct  of  life,  con- 
stantly under  the  good  taste,  the  good  manners,  the  enduring 
patience  of  gentle  minds,  among  strong  men  who  believe  that 
he  lives  most  who  works  most,  labors  longest,  worries  least. 
Each  hall  is  to  have  its  own  literary  and  debating  society,  its 
own  religious  association,  and  its  own  musical  and  athletic 
organizations.^    A  little  later  in  the  history  of  the  Institute 
similar  colleges  will  be  provided  for  the  young  women.     It 
IS  hoped  that  ultimately  all  students  of  the  Institute  will  be 

1  From  the  start  the  students  of  the  Rice  Institute,  irrevocably  committed 
Arhurl^lT   "^   "u7   'P'^'i  ^^^'   participated,   unde^   the   directiHf    Mr 
frc..n-l;-'"   ^"u^'!?-    «f   ^"f^collegiate    athletic   contests.     Following  the 
organization  of  the  Rice   Institute  Athletic  Association,  the  first  s^cTefv  of 

wTatio°n'%°hfs's;:n'  'M'^  ^"^  '^T"''  ^'^  ^^^  Young  MenVchriJtial 
Association.     This  step  on  the  part  of  the  young  men  was  speedily  followed 

their  hZrl"  Tl  ''^  u'  Pt^'  "^  '^'  y°""g  ^^«"^^"  i"  the  organization  of 
IhZ  y^  °^  '^'  "^^^^^^  ^°""S  Women's  Christian  Association.  Each  of 
Roth  Z/''^''^"'  associations  has  held  regular  meetings  continually  since 
Both  have  contributed  to  the  social  life  and  the  religious  spirit  of  the  InstN 
tute.  Regular  classes  in  Bible  study,  meeting  weekly  throughou  the  tear 
are  being  conducted  by  Messrs.  Johnson  and  Tsanoff.^  The  foHege  studen  ' 
above  all  his  kind,  is  a  political  animal,  and,  to  a  degree  far  bevLd  wha; 

hT.'.r''  '  '^T^'  f.  ''^'^T'  ^^^"g-     F«^  ^hi's  reason  it  is  gratifying  to  say 
that  the  internal  religious  forces  of  the  new  institution  have  been  constanth^ 
and  consistently  growing  in  strength.    The  founding  of  the  religioursocfe"  es 
was  followed  by  the  forming  of  three  literary  societies,  one  bv  the  voune 
women,  bearmg  the  name  of  Elizabeth  Baldwin,  wife  of  the  founder  of  thf 
Institute,  and  tvvo  by  the  young  men,  known  respectively  as  '"The  Owl  Liter! 
ary  Society"  and  the  "Riceonian  Literary  and  Debating  Society ''    These  so 
cieties  have  met  weekly  from  the  date  of  their  organiLdon    Ind  have  held" 
occasional  intersociety  meetings  in  public  debate.    Though  founded  by  studem 
initiative,  the  literary  and  debating  societies  have  called  to  their  assistanceTn 
an   advisory  capacity   a   committee   consisting  of  Messrs    Arbuckle    Axson 
Darnell,  Evans,  Huxley,  Hughes,  and  Watkin  ^rbuckle,   Axson, 

1:1683 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

housed  in  such  halls  of  residence.  For  example,  the  residen- 
tial section  for  men  calls  for  a  great  quadrangle  of  quadran- 
gles, whose  main  axis  terminates  at  one  end  by  a  great 
gymnasium  and  at  the  other  by  a  great  union  club.  In  the 
gymnasium  all  students  will  receive  systematic  work  in  phys- 
ical education,  while  the  union  will  offer  many  opportunities 
open  by  competition  to  members  of  all  colleges,  for  among 
these  colleges  there  will  arise  the  liveliest  sort  of  rivalry  in 
scholastic  standing,  in  field  sports,  in  musical,  literary,  and 
debating  activities.  To  those  students  who  for  one  reason 
or  another  are  obliged  to  live  in  the  city  the  union  will  afford 
many  of  the  opportunities  of  the  residential  hall.  By  thus 
providing  in  the  way  of  dwelling  halls  units  larger  than  those 
provided  heretofore  in  American  institutions  it  is  hoped  to 
preserve  and  to  maintain  the  present  democratic  conditions 
of  life  which  obtain  on  the  campus  of  the  new  univ^ersity. 
And  to  that  end,  side  by  side  with  the  building  of  great 
laboratories  of  investigation  and  halls  of  instruction  is  to 
proceed  the  building  of  these  collegiate  homes  for  human 
living.  Each  of  these  homes  will  have  its  roll  of  honor  and 
hall  of  fame,  and,  even  as  the  older  colleges,  will  point  with 
pride  to  men  of  initiative  and  achievement  who  were  former 
members  of  the  hall.  Though  these  halls  may  not  go  as  far 
as  Balliol  College  went  under  Jowett's  mastership  and  re- 
ceive as  students  only  those  who  are  candidates  for  honors, 
yet,  "scorning  delights"  and  ^'living  laborious  days,''  may 
they  not  look  forward  to  a  time  when  their  historian  may 
say  as  does  Mr.  W.  W.  Rouse  Ball  of  his  college,  Trinity, 
Cambridge— to  name  another  English  college  represented 
in  the  first  faculty  of  Rice:  'This  particular  staircase,  which 
I  have  taken  as  a  typical  one,  contains  one  Fellow's  set,  five 
undergraduates'  sets,  one  of  which  is  now  used  by  the 
porters,  and  an  odd  room.    The  rooms  on  the  ground  floor 


J 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

on  the  right-hand  side  on  entering  the  staircase  were  occu- 
pied by  Thackeray,  and  later  by  the  present  Astronomer- 
Royal;  those  on  the  opposite  side,  by  Macaulay;  the  rooms 
on  the  first  floor  next  the  gate  were  occupied  by  Isaac  New- 
ton, and  later  by  Lightfoot,  afterwards  Bishop  of  Durham, 
and  R.  C.  Jebb,  the  Greek  scholar;  and  those  on  the  opposite 
side  by  J.  G.  Frazer,  who  has  done  so  much  to  investigate 
the  habits  of  thought  of  primitive  man.  This  is  an  interest- 
ing group  of  men,  but  in  fact  there  are  few  rooms  in  the 
college  which  have  not  been  inhabited  at  some  time  by  those 
who  have  made  their  names  famous." 

A  distinguished  mathematician  in  Germany  said  very  re- 
cently that  American  college  spirit  is  the  greatest  need  of  the 
German  university.    To  this  academic  audience  college  spirit 
Is  neither  novel  nor  unreal.     The  boldness  in  commenting 
upon  it  may  be  pardoned  when  I  remind  you  that  it  Itself  Is 
freedom,  courage,  comradeship.    It  is  the  freedom  of  sound 
learning  and  the  fellowship  of  youth;  it  Is  the  spirit  of  soli- 
darity,  the  spirit  of  co-operation,  the  collective  spirit  of  cor- 
porate unity.    It  appears  upon  the  rostrum,  at  the  desk,  and 
In  the  field,  on  the  gridiron  and  the  diamond  and  the  track. 
Always  It  Is  the  spirit  of  romance,  occasionally  of  revelry, 
sometimes  of  reformation,  and  frequently,  in  its  most  serious 
and  sober  moments,  bent  on  nothing  more  sober  or  serious 
than  recreation.     In  manners  It  demands  simplicity  and  sin-' 
cerlty;    In   morals,    honesty   and   Integrity.      It   laughs    at 
pedantry,  howls  at  the  pompous,  rebels  at  cant,  exults  In 
candor.     In  judgment  merciless,  if  not  always  unerring;  in 
action  immediate,  if  sometimes  unreflecting;  of  robust  adven- 
ture "that  bulldeth  In  the  cedars'  tops  and  dallies  with  the 
wind  and  scorns  the  sun";  of  virile  sport  that  "greets  the 
unknown  with  a  cheer  and  bids  him  forward."     It  rings  in 
the  song  after  defeat  as  well  as  in  the  shoutings  of  victory. 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

It  Is  progress  and  purpose  and  pluck  and  prayer,  though 
certain  of  these  aspects  reveal  themselves  only  upon  analysis 
somewhat  refined.  It  owns  the  college,  loves  the  college, 
runs  the  college.    Let  this  be  the  spirit  of  Rice. 

If  I  have  adequately  described  this  Incense  of  college 
spirit  as  It  rises  from  the  college  campus,  all  that  I  have  said 
and  a  great  deal  more  Is  necessary  properly  to  characterize 
that  Informing  spirit  of  the  college  itself  whose  sources  are 
In  conference,  cloister,  and  council-chamber.  This  Inform- 
ing spirit  is  more  than  opinion  and  impulse  and  enthusiasm, 
though  Inspired  and  directed  by  each  of  them  In  turn.  It  is 
more  than  tradition  and  custom  and  law,  though  continually 
molded  by  all  three.  It  Is  the  spirit  of  science  and  the  spirit 
of  service.  Sustained  by  such  hard  and  homely  supports  as 
concentration  of  study,  co-ordination  of  studies,  co-operation 
of  students,  and  capitalization  of  student  activities,  its  life 
is  continually  renewed  by  the  native  and  unceasing  demands 
of  the  human  spirit  for  the  sweetness  and  light  of  culture, 
for  the  strength  and  charity  of  character,  for  the  law  and 
order  and  security  of  enlightened  citizenship.  It  Is  the  brain 
of  the  college,  the  heart  of  the  college,  the  soul  of  the  col- 
lege.   May  this  also  be  the  spirit  of  Rice. 

There  is  nothing  unusual  in  insisting  that  the  spirit  of 
one's  college  Is  democratic.  Every  college  in  the  country 
contends  that  It  has  the  spirit  of  true  democracy;  the  only 
difference,  If  any.  Is  that  here  we  do  have  it.  It  is  equally 
true  that  every  good  thing  in  college  life  has  been  a  subject 
of  criticism,  and  this  Is  well,  for  criticism  Is  the  way  to 
health,  while  complacency  may  be  on  the  way  to  stagnation. 
No  feature  of  organized  college  life  has  been  the  subject  of 
greater  criticism  than  the  organized  devotion  to  athletic 
sports,  both  In  the  college  and  among  the  colleges.  In  cli- 
matic   conditions    where    outdoor    life    Is    easily    possible 


I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

throughout  the  year,  the  new  institution  will  have  to  face  its 
problems  in  athletics  resolutely.    This  will  be  the  more  nec- 
essary because  we  believe  to  a  man  in  outdoor  sports;  for 
quite  as  important  to  the  student  as  his  home  and  standards, 
as  his  habits  and  studies,  are  his  hobbies  and  his  sports.    We 
used  to  advocate  athletics  to  make  the  boy  a  man;  we  now 
advocate  athletics  to  keep  the  man  a  boy.     Youth  I  eternal 
youth !  lived  in  a  fountain  of  perpetual  youth !    This  is  one 
of  the  great  compensations  of  the  academic  life.     Genera- 
tions of  coUege  men  may  come  and  generations  go,  but 
youth,  joyous  and  eternal  in  its  spirit,  runs  on  through  all 
these  comings  and  goings.    And  this  contagion  has  spread 
beyond  the  academic  atmosphere,  for  everywhere  there  is 
the  determination  to  die  a  hundred  years  young.    This  de- 
termination is  best  realized  through  systematic  and  regular 
physical  exercise :  it  may  be  throwing  the  discus,  hurling  the 
hammer,  putting  the  shot,  wielding  tennis  racquet  or  golf 
stick,  participating  in  football,  baseball,  and  other  sports  in 
season,  felling  trees,  driving  a  motor-car,  or  steering  an  air- 
plane.   Equally  advantageous  is  a  similar  system  of  mental 
gymnastics  to  discipline  the  intellect  and  stimulate  the  imagi- 
nation by  some  serious  study  wholly  independent  of  one's 
vocation:  for  example,  the  Iliad  or  Euclid,  the  Principia  or 
the  Novum  Organum,    However,  inasmuch  as  we  do  no  less 
of  our  thinking  with  our  hearts  than  with  our  heads,  it  be- 
comes imperative  that  the  springs  of  our  impulses  be  kept 
strong  and  pure.    That  is  to  say,  the  emotions  must  be  held 
sane  and  normal;  this  equilibrium  is  perhaps  best  maintained 
by  interest  or  skill  in  art.    A  study  and  a  sport  and  a  song! 
Personal  prejudice  might  lead  me  to  suggest  mathematics, 
meadow-running  across  country,  and  music.     In  conclusion, 
and  on  the  mighty  element  of  this  triad,  the  great  defense  of 
college  sports  is  that  sane  devotion  to  them  which  leads  not 


i 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

only  to  healthy  living  but  to  clean  living.  The  dangers  lie 
in  over-training,  in  high  specialization,  in  professional  ten- 
dencies in  the  highly  developed  team,  making  sport  for  the 
few  and  spectators  of  the  many.  The  problem  is  to  get  the 
student  crowds  off  the  bleachers  and  in  the  blazers.  Some 
of  these  difficulties  we  hope  to  meet  by  giving  athletic  train- 
ing a  place  in  the  curriculum,  by  encouraging  class,  club,  and 
college  competitions,  by  fostering  the  sportsman's  spirit  of 
amateur  sport  in  all  meets— a  temper  which  I  can  perhaps 
best  express  by  quoting  the  following  striking  and  appro- 
priate lines  from  a  short  poem  by  Mr.  Henry  Newbolt,  en- 
titled "Clifton  Chapel,''  which  appeared  in  the  "Spectator" 
of  September  lo,  1898: 

To  set  the  cause  above  renown, 
To  love  the  game  beyond  the  prize, 
To  honour  while  you  strike  him  down 
The  foe  that  comes  with  fearless  eyes. 
To  count  the  life  of  battle  good, 
And  dear  the  land  that  gave  you  birth, 
And  dearer  yet  the  brotherhood 
That  binds  the  brave  of  all  the  earth. 

In  thus  writing  about  the  students  of  Rice,  I  have  written 
of  their  standards,  their  spirit,  and  their  sports;  I  have  yet 
to  write,  and  as  briefly  as  possible,  of  their  studies,  their 
shields,  and  their  songs.  I  have  told  these  students— these 
outriders  of  a  host,  these  torch-bearers  of  the  sun-dawn, 
these  conquerors  of  a  new  day,  these  forerunners  of  a  throng 
that  is  ultimately  to  be  many  thousand  strong— these  first 
students  of  the  Rice  Institute,  I  have  told  them  that  they  are 
the  Rice  Institute.  These  beautiful  buildings  are  its  tene- 
ment of  clay,  but  the  staff  and  students  its  brain  and  heart, 
determining  and  regulating  the  flow  of  thought  and  the  flow 

[173] 


i '' 


t 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 
of  life  in  its  being:  in  them  its  character  and  intellect,  its 
standards  in  scholarship  and  sports,  assume  concrete  form; 
m  them  its  spirit  and  temper  find  a  body;  without  their  pres- 
ence these  quadrangles  would  be  empty,  these  halls  silent; 
without  their  co-operation  these  plans  would  become  inef- 
fective, these  programmes  unfulfilled.    But  with  their  help, 
which  they  have  given  heartily,  and  with  their  hopes,  which 
well  up  constantly,  the  dry  bones  of  an  academic  programme 
are  coming  to  life,  and  these  dry  bones  live.    Probably  the 
most  joyous  expression  of  that  life  will  find  itself  in  the  songs 
of  the  students.     These  songs,  inarticulate  in  our  hearts, 
will  one  after  another  be  called  to  vocal  expression  by  the 
great  days  and  crises  of  our  life.     We  shall  have  our  "Fair 
Harvard,"  "Old  Nassau,"  "Hail,  Pennsylvania,"  and  "The 
Eyes  of  Texas  are  upon  You."    With  Yale  men  we  too  shall 
smg  of  this  "Mother  of  Men,"  and  to  "Alma  Mater"  with 
Stanford,  Johns  Hopkins,  Chicago,  and  Cornell.     Under 
the  Lone  Star  of  Texas  and  the  Owls  of  Rice,  under  the 
Blue  and  Gray  floating  from  their  standards-a  blue  still 
deeper  than  the  Oxford  blue,  and  the  gray  of  Confederate 
days  warmed  into  life  by  a  tinge  of  lavender-they  shall 
smg  their  songs;  sing  of  jasmine,  magnolias,  and  roses,  poin- 
settia  and  violets  blue;  they  shall  cheer  their  teams  and  their 
heroes  for  the  deeds  of  valor  they  do  in  field  or  forum  or 
class-room ;  for  Rice  and  for  Houston  and  Texas  they  shall 
cheer  and  shout  and  sing-sing  of  campanile  stately  and 
their  college  near  the  sea,  sing  of  sunset  on  the  prairie    of 
the  moonrise  through  the  pine-trees,  of  the  Spanish  moss  and 
hveoak,  of  the  Quad's  fair  towers  and  cloisters,  of  undying 
loyalty;  songs  of  sentiment  and  devotion  giving  rise  to  songs 
of  service,  inspired  by  the  device  on  their  banner,  a  Homeric 
device. 


THf    FEDERAL  TFCHNICAL  HIGH 
S^     jOL  in  THb  v>!TY  OF  ZURICH. 

d.ttoiiiKs  most  cord'affv  for  the  Mild  toivf*tt.»i»f^entf   ^-'  - 

THE  Pf^ESlDEN  i  ANDTRubrEEsOE 
THE  RICE  INSTITUTE  OF  LIBERAL 

andTechnicalLearning 

fevnileJ   m   the   City   of  Houston,  Tcxss    ' 
fr^  hr  .^reseB^  at  the  liutu^radon  of  the  in<^ 


Mwt  Mant  o^  iiitfcre'  ■  is    vv  ^ttzi  oi  learning,  nor  the  great 

^m  dmance  ttogr  scj  r.  ;  .     v>   t-^n-  mujht  aetiiii  m  fnmi 

oitef^if  oiir  wishes  perse nalh ,  but  the  n!»jH>^sibiiir>  for  any  member 

staff  to  be  absent  aii  the  ver>  be|?jnning  of  'Ije  new  academic 

NSi'e  beg,   rherefore.  our  sincere   :-«>it|^«ttiitttioiis 

«<  I  m  of  this  address,  and  icve  in  our  kindest  feelfeues 

Li  and  your  infititurion. 
May  the  Rice  Instinire  with  iC'  5$»^eficli<l  nev 
uAketiy  and  halls,  its  laboratories,  ana  25.  hcco--K*  a  rtcb  source 

src  and   erudition,   a  grear  pnmtor  ,e  and   useftii 

dge  in  your  prusfjcrows  *xHintfv 


'fce   Presideni 

T> 

W«»J^^:l  oP  Tni«fee&: 

tif  ill.'  Sp«V-'-, 

■''  ■'  *; .  , 

V  .  ^. 

Zurich,  Sv  irzeriuKl, 


iber   !0i:. 


TI 


*i* 


r 


.->    iicin  us  spii 
sncp  these 


n  fher  -act:  ^^^^ct,  its 

>'UiU,  assume  concrete  torrn ; 

^  a  bodv;  without  their  pres- 

-iis  silent; 
oiiid  become  inef- 
^  ■■^'  *^heir  help, 

'Jieu-  hopes,  which 

ogramrne 

"jucs  iivc         robably  the 

1  find  itself  1^'  the  songs 

{icai*ts, 
-esston  by  the 


les  iin^i?! 


^  ::ir 


rh 


:e 


shall 
atdr  '  with 


d.iA 


I 


of  th''^^ 

riupkins.  thica  d  Cornell.     UnJer 

the        ne  Star  of  Tex.,  nr  ^  H,.  O.         ''  R"-      -nder-the 

"  ilit'ir  scandards--~a  blue  still 

deeper  than  the  Oxford  bhie,  and  tht        ,^   ,,.   ^confederate 

''     -  >J  javender— they  shall 

f  jasmine,  matrnol  ^ ;;^  poin- 

*      '  ms  and  thejr 

'•^^^'  d  or  fonim  or 

.>nd    ir^T  T^  11 

.iail 
^'**^"  atelv  and 

c,  of 

mish  moss  and 

,vers  qn^Jrloi-  K^dying 

•      '1  giving  rise  to  songs 

:eonthe:       inner         lomeric 


device, 


Aii^v  dpia-^ 


-yoi/  ffifxti'ai  fy\\r  V 


THE  Federal  Technical  High 
School  in  the  City  of  Zurich, 

Switzerland,  thanks  most  cordially  for  the  kind  invitation  sent  to  her  by 

the  President  andTrustees  of 

THE  Rice  Institute  of  Liberal 

andTechnicalLearning 

founded    in   the   City  of  Houston,  Texas  U.  S.  A., 
to  be  present  at  the  Inauguration  of  the  Institution. 

Jot  want  of  interest  for  this  new  seat  of  learning,  nor  the  great 
distance  that  separates  us  from  you  might  detain  us  from 
offering  our  wishes  personally,  but  the  impossibility  for  any  member 
of  our  staff  to  be  absent  at  the  very  beginning  of  the  new  academic 
>ear.  We  beg,  therefore,  to  accept  our  sincere  congratulations 
in  the  form  of  this  address,  and  to  believe  in  our  kindest  feelings 
toward  you  and  your  institution. 

May  the  Rice  Institute  with  its  splendid  new  buildings,  its 
colleges  and  halls,  its  laboratories  and  libraries,  become  a  rich  source 
of  culture  and  erudition,  a  great  promoter  of  noble  and  useful 
knowledge  in  >our  prosperous  country. 


The  President 
of  the  Board  of  Trustees: 


The  Rector 
of  the  Federal  Technical  High  School: 

C  ^^-*^  xCyi 


Zurich,  Switzerland,  September  1912. 


Friti  Amtort*r  »o»m-  Da>i<l  HHrkll.  Imrich. 


.■»fia».'fky.f 


N     ' 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

a  line  appearing  twice  in  the  Iliad  at  vi,  208,  and  xi,  784, 
said  to  have  been  the  favorite  of  Alexander  the  Great  and 
used  by  him  to  exhort  his  men  on  the  great  expedition;  a  de- 
vice borne  also  as  alei^  dpLareveLp  by  the  students  of  St. 
Andrews,  who,  in  the  days  when  we  were  laying  the  founda- 
tions of  this  building,  were  celebrating  the  five-hundredth 
anniversary  of  the  founding  of  their  own  university.  In  the 
longer  of  Pope's  two  translations  the  line  reads: 

To  win  renown^ 
To  stand  the  first  in  worth  as  in  command; 
To  add  new  honours  to  my  native  land; 

Before  my  eyes  my  mighty  sires  to  place, 

And  emulate  the  glories  of  our  race. 


And  on  the  flag  of  these  Rice  students  are  two  shields,  a 
shield  of  the  State  of  Texas  and  the  shield  of  the  Rice  Insti- 
tute.   The  latter  heraldic  device  was  designed  by  Mr.  Pierre 
de  Chaignon  la  Rose  of  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  who  has 
ingeniously  combined  the  main  elements  of  the  arms  of  the 
several   families  bearing  the  names  of  Rice  or  Houston. 
The  problem  was  simplified  by  the  fact  that  the  shields  of 
some  ten  Rice  armorial  bearings  were  always  divided  by  a 
chevron,    always   carried   three   charges,    and   when   these 
charges  were  not  crows  they  were  ravens.  Curiously  enough, 
the  shields  of  the  half-dozen  Houstons  who  bore  arms  were 
always  divided  by  a  chevron,  while  here  again  the  three 
charges  were  birds,  and  these  were  always  martlets.  Accord- 
ingly it  was  decided  to  employ  a  double  chevron,  and  since 
neither  the  crow  nor  the  raven  nor  the  martlet  had  any  his- 
torical academic  standing,  owls  of  Athena  were  chosen  for 
charges,  and  in  the  remarkable  form  in  which  they  appeared 
on  a  small  silver  tetradrachmenon  of  the  middle  of  the  fifth 

D753 


r 

Hi 


I 


*■' 


II       f 


THE  RICE  liXSTITUTE 

century  before  Christ.     The  choice  of  colors  was  rather 
more  difficult,  and  is  a  long  story;  but  to  make  that  long 
story  short,  among  the  several  ends  to  be  desired  were,  that 
the  combination  of  colors  should  be  stable,  should  not  tres- 
pass upon  the  five  or  six  hundred  combinations   already 
chosen  by  other  institutions,  should  harmonize  with  State 
and  national  emblems  for  purposes  of  decoration  on  gala 
occasions,  should  be  standard  colors  easily  and  economically 
procurable,  and  finally  they  should  jump  with  local  climatic 
conditions-that  is  to  say,  plenty  of  color  and  yet  cool  in 
the  warm  sun  of  summer,  delicate  and  yet  of  sufficient  life 
if  days  should  perchance  be  dull.     At  least  some  of  these 
ends  were  attained  in  the  combination  of  blue  and  gray  de- 
scribed in  the  preceding  paragraph,  namely,  the  Confederate 
gray  enlivened  by  a  tinge  of  lavender,  with  a  blue  still  deeper 
than  the  Oxford  blue. 

In  an  earlier  section  of  this  address  I  have  sketched  in 
broad  lines  the  scope  of  the  new  university's  work  and  the 
range  of  its  studies.     I  have  implied  our  belief  that  the  col- 
lege and  the  professional  school  thrive  best  in  a  university 
atmosphere.  I  have  also  said  that  this  university  programme 
with  us  is  to  have  no  upper  limit,  and  that  its  lower  limit  is 
to  be  no  lower  than  that  of  the  more  conservative  colleges 
and  universities  of  the  country;  that  is  to  say,  the  Rice  Insti- 
tute's  programme  will  include  within  its  schedules  of  studies 
no  courses  of  grade  lower  than  collegiate  grade.     The  op- 
portunity to  found  a  great  secondary  school,  as  was  the 
opportunity  to  devote  the  entire  resources  of  the  foundation 
to  a  smgle  professional  school,  was  tempting  and  equally 
promismg.     Neither  of  these  courses,  however,  would  have 
kept  full  faith  with  the  will  of  the  founder  as  expressed  in 
the  charter  and  testament,  nor  would  either  have  served  the 
city  and  the  State  quite  as  fully  as  the  one  finally  adopted 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Accordingly  it  is  as  a  university  that  the  Institute  proposes 
to  begin,  a  university  of  liberal  and  technical  learning,  where 
liberal  studies  may  be  studied  liberally  or  technically,  where 
technical  subjects  may  be  pursued  either  technically  or  liber- 
ally, where  whatever  of  professional  training  Is  offered  Is  to 
be  based  as  far  as  possible  on  a  broad  general  education. 

Candidates  for  admission  to  the  Institute  who  present 
satisfactory  testimonials  as  to  their  character  will  be  ac- 
cepted either  upon  successful  examination  in  the  entrance 
subjects  or  by  certificate  of  graduation  from  an  accredited 
public  or  private  high  school.     The  terms  of  admission  to 
the  Institute  are  based  on  the  recommendations  of  the  Car- 
negie Foundation  for  the  Advancement  of  Teaching  as  ex- 
pressed In  the  Documents  of  the  College  Entrance  Examina- 
tion Board.     While  seeking  to  develop  Its  students  In  char- 
acter. In  culture,  and  in  citizenship,  the  Rice  Institute  will 
reserve  for  scholarship  Its  highest  rewards,  and  In  particular 
for  evidences  of  creative  capacity  In  productive  scholarship. 
To  encourage  this  devotion  to  learning  a  series  of  under- 
graduate scholarships  and  graduate  fellowships  will  be  de- 
vised, to  be  awarded  preferably  to  those  students  who  have 
been  in  residence  at  the  Institute  for  at  least  one  year. 
Moreover,  the  varied  opportunities  for  self-help  In  a  grow- 
ing institution  in  a  large  city  should  aid  in  enabling  any 
young  man  of  determination  to  earn  his  education  in  a  thor- 
oughly democratic  college  community.     There  may  thus  be 
realized  the  founder's  desire  that  the  advantages  which  his 
philanthropy  would  make  possible  should  be  brought  within 
the  reach  of  the  promising  student  of  slender  means. 

Although  it  is  the  policy  of  the  new  institution  to  develop 
Its  university  programme  rather  more  seriously  from  the 
science  end,  there  are  also  being  provided  facilities  for  ele- 
mentary and  advanced  courses  in  the  so-called  humanities, 

1:1773 


ri 


■V 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 
thereby  enabling  the  Institute  to  offer  both  the  advantages  of 
a  liberal  general  education  and  those  of  special  and  profes- 
sional training.     Extensive  general  courses  in  the  various 
domains  of  scientific  knowledge  are  available,  but  in  the 
main  the  programme  consists  of  subjects  carefully  co-ordi- 
nated and  calling  for  considerable  concentration  of  study. 
These  programmes  have  been  so  arranged  as  to  offer  a  vari- 
ety of  courses  in  arts,  in  science,  in  letters,  and  in  their  appli- 
cations to  the  several  fields  of  applied  science,  leading  after 
four  years  of  undergraduate  work  to  the  degree  of  bachelor 
of  arts.    Degrees  will  also  be  offered  in  architecture  and  in 
chemical,  civil,  electrical,  and  mechanical  engineering.    Fur- 
thermore,  for  the  degrees  of  master  of  arts,  doctor  of  phi- 
losophy, and  doctor  of  engineering  every  facility  will  be  af- 
forded properly  qualified  graduate  students  to  undertake 
lines  of  study  and  research  under  the  direction  of  the  Insti- 
tute's resident  and  visiting  professors.    Thus  it  appears  that 
Rice  would  interpret  in  a  very  large  way  its  dedication  to  the 
advancement  of  letters,  science,  and  art.    It  would  look  not 
only  to  the  employment  of  these  principles  in  the  develop- 
ment of  the  life  of  the  individual  and  in  that  of  the  race,  but 
It  would  also  play  its  part  in  the  progress  and  enlargement 
of  human  knowledge  by  the  contributions  of  its  own  resident 
professors  and  scholars.     We  believe  that  to  this  end  there 
should  be  a  constant  and  close  association  of  undergraduate 
work   and  postgraduate   work,   that   any  proposals   which 
would  tend  to  their  separation  would  be  injurious  to  both 
A  hard  and  fast  line  between  the  two  is  disadvantageous 
to  the  undergraduate,  and  diminishes  the  number  who  go 
on  to  advanced  work.    The  most  distinguished  teachers  must 
take  their  part  in  undergraduate  teaching,  and  their  spirit 
should  dominate  it  all.     The  main  advantage  to  the  student 
IS  the  personal  influence  of  men  of  original  mind.    The  main 

1:178:] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

advantage  to  the  teachers  is  that  they  select  their  students 
for  advanced  work  from  a  wider  range,  train  them  in  their 
own  methods,  and  are  stimulated  by  association  with  them. 
Free  intercourse  with  advanced  students  is  inspiring  and 
encouraging  to  undergraduates.     The  influence  of  the  uni- 
versity as  a  whole  upon  teachers  and  students,  and  upon  all 
departments  of  work  within  it,  is  lost  if  the  higher  work  is 
separated  from  the  lower.''     Accordingly,  there  should  al- 
ways be  associated  with  the  staff  of  the  Institute  a  group  of 
advanced  students  in  training  for  careers  both  as  teachers 
and  researchers:  with  this  end  in  view,  graduate  fellowships 
will  be  awarded  from  time  to  time  to  degree-bearing  students 
of  the  Institute  or  other  educational  foundations  of  similar 
standing.    As  a  matter  of  fact,  in  the  academic  year  19 14-15 
there  are  in  residence  two  fellows  in  mathematics,  two  in 
physics,  and  one  in  biology. 

The  academic  schedules  of  study  drawn  up  in  the  imme- 
diately succeeding  sections  of  this  address  had  not  been  pre- 
pared in  detail  when  the  address  was  being  written.  They 
have  grown  gradually  into  form  out  of  the  general  and  local 
experience  of  the  faculty  of  the  Institute.  They  are  taken 
from  preliminary  announcements,  to  which  they  were  con- 
tributed on  recommendation  of  the  staff  after  discussions  of 
proposals  submitted  by  a  committee  on  studies  and  schedules 
consisting  of  Messrs.  Axson,  Evans,  Guerard,  Huxley,  and 
Wilson,  resident  members  of  the  faculty. 

The  programmes  of  courses  leading  to  the  degree  of 
bachelor  of  arts  after  four  years  of  study  are  of  a  common 
type  for  the  first  two  years,  but  for  the  third  and  fourth 
years  are  differentiated  into  two  forms:  first,  general  courses 
leading  to  the  degree  of  bachelor  of  arts,  either  with  some 
grade  of  distinction  or  without  special  mention;  second,  hon- 
ors courses  leading  to  the  same  degree  with  first,  second,  or 


t^'c-J^i-:^ 


,-sa.-,"iiii?^«wa|K,)di'.' 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 
third  class  honors.    These  two  types  will  be  referred  to  in 
the  sequel  as  general  courses  and  honors  courses,  respec- 
tively.   The  general  course  leading  to  the  degree  of  bachelor 
of  arts  has  been  arranged  to  give  thorough  training  to  those 
students  who  are  seeking  university  instruction  in  literary 
and  scientific  subjects  either  as  a  part  of  a  liberal  education 
or  as  preliminary  to  entrance  upon  a  business  or  professional 
career.    The  general  course  therefore  involves  the  study  of 
several  subjects  up  to  a  high  university  standard,  but  does 
not  include  a  highly  detailed  specialized  study  of  any  one 
subject  such  as  is  necessary  before  research  work  or  univer- 
sity teaching  can  be  profitably  undertaken.    Students  wishing 
to  specialize  with  a  view  to  research  work  and  university 
teaching  may  either  take  an  honors  course  and  then  proceed 
by  graduate  study  to  the  degrees  of  master  of  arts  and  doc- 
tor of  philosophy,  or  they  may  first  take  a  general  bachelor 
of  arts  course  and  after  completing  it  proceed  by  graduate 
study  to  the  higher  degrees. 

The  attention  of  students  intending  to  enter  the  profes- 
sion of  engineering  or  architecture  will  be  constantly  called 
to  the  great  advantages  in  first  taking  a  general  or  honors 
course  before  beginning  special  study  in  engineering  or  archi- 
tecture.   As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  time  is  coming  when  in  the 
South  there  will  be  demand  for  a  place  where  a  bachelor's 
degree  will  be  required  for  admission  to  courses  in  engineer- 
ing and  other  domains  of  applied  science,  and  when  that 
time  comes  the  Rice  Institute  intends  to  occupy  that  place 
However,  in  the  face  of  present  local  conditions  such  a  se- 
vere standard  can  only  be  reached  through  an  evolutionary 
process  that  may  occupy  a  score  of  years  or  a  generation 
For  the  present  the  Institute  will  not  offer  courses  leading  to 
professional  degrees  in  law  and  medicine,  but  students  look- 
ing forward  to  such  careers  will  find  in  the  earlier  years  of 

1:1803 


n 


« 


9i       tab 

111  K I 


««■« 

V* 

*«4 

1 

^ 

i 

*-J, 

^' 

J  ■»!»«■ 

^ 

•  »m  * 

>^ 

Jt 

f"« 


t 


i 


^  ^  «   «»   c 


•^-i^s^crs^' 


•'^T^fTt^'^ 


■i'^lT"'^*   '-^ 


ytTiijhii'Whi  iiT        ;^ 


:> 


1  f^H 

^  'a  X  #^  I.*! 

«    w     c   ^ 
^*  "^    S*  *^    '«* 

kB     ^     e  V* 

•■  «  •• 

;5  J*   c^  »-  ^ 

w     JT      x»     ig^ 

I  :£  't   I  ^ 

W    *W    ^^    'X      «. 

\j(  5   ?   a  £♦ 

?tf«  <s    V     <* 


^  ^-  L 


.3  w 
c    S 


V-.    a    *• 


,::  V   c.   a  ^ 


«Bk    0m*    «L.      ■•$«"    <«> 


5 


il 


r 


•<'  •   '><f^^ 


V 


jB'f 


i' 


I 


st?]den 
aiiu  SCI 
or 


'■5  rp 


IHi    KICK  INSTITUTE 

third  class  h.r  j  nese  two  types  will  be  referred  to  in 

the  sequel  a<;  ntncrnl  courses  ?.nd  Honors  courses,  respec- 

^  '  "^^?'  coa;:ic  icauuig  to  me  degree  of  bachelor 

Deen  arran^/ed  to  irive  thorough  training  to  those 

*^y  instruction  in  literary 

part  of  a  liberal  education 

"'^'^■'  ■  -  -aiess  or  proressional 

oursc  tiicretore  involves  the  study  of 

Uizcd  study  of  any  one 
esear'  h  w.ork  or  univer- 

its  wishing 
university 
iina  cneu  proceed 
irts  and  doc- 
general  bachelor 
woiiipicting  it  proceed  by  graduate 
study  to  the  higher  degrees. 

rhi^  -^rention  of  students  intending  to  enter  the  profes- 

'leering  or  architecture  will  be  constantly  called 

Jvnnf.cre^-  u.  ,._,  general  or" honors 

RMining  specKil  study  in  eni^ineering  or  archi- 

f^r  of  facf   ^H^  firr 


cor 

o 


^i'O 


JX   fc   I 


tectur' 
Ho 


prolession, 
in^  for  war 


'ig  when  in  the 

criiana  ior  a  p-  ^  bachelor's 

red  for  nd-  ,  ^-^s  in  engineer- 

'  I   d\jy.n.a  scienLe,  and  when  that 

re  it)        \  to  ornmv  that  place. 

■iuitions  such  a  se- 
aa  evolutionary 
a  generation. 
>urses  leading  to 
V'  and  mf'dinn:*   but  students  look- 
-nu  in  che  earlier  years  of 
rr8. 


'ath( 
rore 

uue  will  nr 


J:  i 


►^sSS^x 


& 

"       M 


1^^  1 1 


s  ^ 


^« 


fe  c  ♦i  > 


i 


V   ^   *  T  -= 


^  ;c 


■c:>-« 


I 


S  ^  ^  ^  i'^  i  I  §•••  ^^ 

#^  :r  ^   n  — '    r   a  '^  JS  Sii    2  \^ 


1  ■ 


^p 


i«^^t<- 


^>f'Jf=3^: 


'••»». 


•  •  »»^ 


*C^.3 


H 


ir 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

the  bachelor  of  arts  courses  all  the  requirements  for  admis- 
sion to  many  medical  and  law  schools,  provided  suitable  sub- 
jects are  chosen.  However,  in  view  of  the  fact  that  several 
of  the  leading  professional  schools  of  law  and  medicine  are 
now  requiring  a  bachelor's  degree  for  admission,  all  such 
students  are  urged  to  proceed  to  this  degree  before  entering 
upon  specialized  study  preparatory  to  the  practice  of  their 
profession. 

To  students  of  architecture  the  Institute  offers  a  full 
course  extending  over  five  years,  leading  to  the  bachelor's 
degree  at  the  end  of  the  fourth  year  and  to  an  architectural 
degree  at  the  end  of  the  fifth  year.  It  is  the  purpose  of  the 
course  in  architecture  to  lead  men  during  their  residence  to 
a  comprehensive  understanding  of  the  art  of  building;  to 
acquaint  them  with  the  history  of  architecture  from  early 
civilization  to  the  present  age ;  and  to  develop  within  them 
an  understanding  and  appreciation  of  those  conceptions  of 
beauty  and  utility  which  are  fundamental  to  the  cultivation 
of  ability  in  the  art  of  design.  The  course  has  been  so  ar- 
ranged as  to  include  certain  indispensable  elements  of  liberal 
education  and  also  such  engineering  and  technical  subjects 
as  are  becoming  more  and  more  necessary  to  the  general 
education  of  a  practising  architect.  Of  the  more  strictly 
architectural  subjects,  design  is  given  by  far  the  largest  place. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  courses  in  history  and  design  and 
those  in  free-hand  drawing,  in  water-color,  in  drawing  from 
life,  and  in  historic  ornament  have  all  a  double  object:  to 
create  in  the  student  an  appreciation  of  architectural  dignity 
and  refinement,  and  to  Increase  constantly  his  ability  to  ex- 
press conceptions  of  architectural  forms.  Accordingly  the 
training  of  the  student  must  not  be  limited  to  the  training  in 
draftsmanship  alone,  but  all  courses  should  conspire  to  the 
cultivation  of  creative  and  constructive  ability  In  expression 


i 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

and  design.  With  a  view  to  keeping  in  touch  with  the  prog- 
ress of  his  profession  and  with  the  daily  routine  and  detail 
of  its  practice,  it  is  strongly  recommended  that  the  student 
spend  his  summer  vacations  in  the  office  of  some  practising 
architect. 

Courses  will  be  offered  In  chemical,  civil,  electrical,  and 
mechanical  engineering.     A  complete  course  in  any  one  of 
these  branches  will  extend  over  five  years.    A  student  who 
has  successfully  completed  the  first  four  years  of  a  course 
will  be  awarded  a  bachelor's  degree,  and  after  successfully 
completing  the  remaining  year  of  his  course  he  will  receive  an 
engineering  degree.  The  work  of  the  first  three  years  will  be 
practically  the  same  for  all  students,  but  in  the  last  two  years 
each  student  will  be  required  to  select  one  of  the  special 
branches  mentioned  above.    The  work  of  the  first  two  years 
will  consist  chiefly  of  courses  in  pure  and  applied  mathemat- 
ics, physics,  chemistry,  and  other  subjects,  an  adequate  know- 
ledge of  which  is  absolutely  necessary  before  the  more  tech- 
nical courses  can  be  pursued  with  advantage.     During  the 
first  two  years,  however,  a  considerable  amount  of  time  will 
be  devoted  to  engineering  drawing  and  the  elements  of  sur- 
veying.    Technical  work  will  begin  in  the  third  year^  with 
courses  of  a  general  character  in  mechanical  engineering, 
civil  engineering,  and  electrical  engineering,  all  three  to  be 
taken  by  all  engineering  students,  including  those  in  chemi- 
cal engineering.    These  courses  will  form  an  introduction  to 
the  technical  side  of  each  branch,  and  should  enable  students 
intelligently  to  select  a  particular  branch  at  the  beginning  of 
their  fourth  year.     In  the  third  year  instruction  will  also  be 
begun  in  shopwork.    The  classes  in  shopwork  are  intended 

1  As  a  matter  of  fact,  during  the  present  academic  year  (1914-15)  mem- 
bers of  the  junior  class  are  receiving  lecture  and  laboratory  courses  of  gen- 
eral and  introductory  character  in  engineering  and  architecture  at  the  hands 
of  xMessrs.  Diamant,  Hitch,  Humphrey,  Pound,  Tidden,  Van  Sicklen,  and 
Watkm. 


t 


m 

'ii 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

to  give  familiarity  with  shopwork  methods.  The  object  of 
these  classes  is  not  primarily  to  train  students  to  become 
skilled  mechanics,  but  to  provide  such  knowledge  of  shop 
methods  as  is  desirable  for  those  who  may  be  expected  as 
engineers  to  employ  mechanics  and  to  superintend  engineer- 
ing shops.  It  is  intended  in  the  engineering  courses  to  pay 
special  attention  to  the  theoretical  side,  because  experience 
has  shown  that  theoretical  knowledge  is  difficult  to  obtain 
after  leaving  the  university,  and  without  it  a  rapid  rise  in 
the  profession  of  engineering  Is  almost  impossible.  On  the 
other  hand,  it  is  not  intended  to  disregard  practical  instruc- 
tion. For  this  reason  the  last  three  years  will  include,  be- 
sides shopwork,  a  variety  of  practical  work  in  engineering 
testing-laboratories.  It  is  recommended  that  students  obtain 
employment  in  engineering  work  during  the  summer  vaca- 
tions, for  it  should  be  remembered  that  no  amount  of  uni- 
versity work  can  take  the  place  of  learning  by  practical  ex- 
perience In  engineering  establishments  and  In  the  field.  The 
courses  In  engineering  are  not  Intended  to  take  the  place  of 
learning  by  practical  experience,  but  are  designed  to  supply 
a  knowledge  of  the  fundamental  principles  and  scientific 
methods  on  which  the  practice  of  engineering  Is  based,  and 
without  which  it  is  difficult,  if  not  Impossible,  to  succeed  In 
the  practice  of  the  profession.  Students  who  can  afford  the 
time  are  recommended  to  devote  three  or  four  years  to  pre- 
liminary work  instead  of  two,  taking  the  bachelor  of  arts 
degree  at  the  end  of  four  years  and  an  engineering  degree 
at  the  end  of  six  years.  Students  proposing  to  do  this  are 
advised  to  take  a  course  devoted  largely  to  mathematics, 
physics,  and  chemistry,  or  an  honors  course  in  either  mathe- 
matics, physics,  or  chemistry.  The  subjects  taken  during 
the  years  of  preparatory  work  must  Include  those  of  the  first 
two  years  In  the  general  engineering  course,  which  may  be 


(' 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

substituted  for  electives  in  the  academic  bachelor  of  arts 
course.  The  honors  course  in  physics  is  strongly  recom- 
mended for  those  who  wish  to  become  either  electrical  or 
mechanical  engineers. 

As  has  already  been  intimated,  the  course  for  the  degree 
of  bachelor  of  arts  extends  over  four  years.  During  the 
first  two  years  a  considerable  part  of  the  work  is  prescribed, 
while  during  the  last  two  years  each  student  is  allowed,  with 
certain  restrictions,  to  select  the  subjects  he  studies.  In  the 
majority  of  the  courses  the  formal  instruction  offered  con- 
sists of  three  lectures  a  week,  on  alternate  days,  together 
with  laboratory  work  in  certain  subjects. 

The  academic  year  is  divided  into  three  terms,  but  as  a 
rule  the  year  is  the  unit  of  the  courses  rather  than  the  term. 
In  addition  to  informal  examinations  held  at  irregular  inter- 
vals, there  are  formal  examinations  at  the  end  of  each  of 
the  three  terms.  In  determining  the  standing  of  a  student  in 
each  class,  both  his  work  during  the  term  and  the  record  of 
his  examinations  are  taken  into  account. 

Of  subjects  included  in  the  bachelor  of  arts  course  the  fol- 
lowing are  now  available: 

Group  A:  English,  French,  German,  Spanish,  economics, 
education,  history,  philosophy,  architecture. 

Group  B :  pure  mathematics,  applied  mathematics,  physics, 
chemistry,  biology,  chemical  engineering,  civil  engineering, 
electrical  engineering,  mechanical  engineering. 

Instruction  in  the  classics  is  also  offered  on  demand. 
Candidates  for  the  degree  of  bachelor  of  arts  of  the  Rice 
Institute  are  required  for  the  first  two  years  of  their  course 
to  select  studies  from  the  preceding  groups  according  to  the 
following  yearly  programmes.  First  year:  pure  mathemat- 
ics,  English,  a  modern  language,  a  science,  and  one  other 
subject.     Second  year:  pure  mathematics  or  a  science,  Eng- 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

lish,  a  modern  language,  and  two  other  subjects.     Students 
who  enter  with  credit  in  two  modern  languages  may  substi- 
tute another  subject  for  modern  languages  in  the  second 
year.    At  the  beginning  of  the  third  year  students  may  elect 
to  take  either  a  general  course  or  an  honors  course.     The 
third  year  general  bachelor  of  arts  course  consists  of  four 
subjects,  of  which  two  must  have  been  taken  in  the  second 
year  and  one  in  both  first  and  second.    At  least  one  subject 
from  each  of  the  groups  A  and  B  must  be  taken.    Students 
will  receive  advice  in  the  selection  of  their  subjects.     The 
fourth  year  general  bachelor  of  arts  course  includes  four 
subjects,  two  of  which  must  have  been  taken  in  the  third  year 
and  one  in  both  second  and  third.    At  least  one  subject  from 
each  of  the  groups  A  and  B  must  be  taken.     To  students 
who  have  completed  the  general  course  the  bachelor  of  arts 
degree  will  be  awarded  either  with  some  grade  of  distinc- 
tion or  without  special  mention.    The  third  and  fourth  year 
honors  courses  are  intended  for  students  who  wish  to  spe- 
cialize in  particular  branches  of  knowledge  with  a  view  to 
research  work  or  teaching  or  later  professional  studies.    In 
view   of   these    special   objects,    the    requirements   in   such 
courses  will  be  more  severe  than  in  the  general  courses  in 
the  same  subjects.     For  this  reason  it  is  recommended  that 
students  exercise  due  caution  and  seek  advice  before  electing 
to  take  an  honors  course.     Only  those  students  who  have 
shown  in  their  first  and  second  years  that  they  are  especially 
well  qualified  will  be  permitted  to  take  an  honors  course. 
A  student  proposing  to  take  such  a  course  must  satisfy  the 
department  concerned  that  he  is  qualified  to  proceeed  with 
the  study  of  that  subject.     He  will  be  required  to  take  the 
lectures  and  practical  work  provided  for  honors  students  in 
that  subject  during  each  of  the  two  years,  and  in  addition 
certain  courses  in  allied  subjects.     The  degree  of  bachelor 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

of  arts  with  first,  second,  or  third  class  honors  will  be 
awarded,  at  the  end  of  the  fourth  year,  to  students  who 
have  completed  an  honors  course.  Honors  courses  in  mathe- 
matics and  physics  were  given  during  the  academic  year 
1913-14-  In  1914-15  honors  courses  will  be  available  in 
pure  and  applied  mathematics,  and  theoretical  and  experi- 
mental physics.  In  addition  to  these,  honors  courses  in  mod- 
ern languages  and  literatures  and  in  biology  will  be  offered 
in  1915-16. 

A  student  who  has  completed  a  general  or  an  honors 
course  for  the  bachelor  of  arts  degree  may  obtain  the  mas- 
ter of  arts  degree  after  the  successful  completion  of  one 
year  of  graduate  work.    A  candidate  for  the  degree  of  mas- 
ter of  arts  must  select  a  principal  subject  and  will  be  required 
to  take  such  courses  in  that  subject  and  allied  subjects  as  may 
be  determined  for  each  individual  case.     He  will  also  be 
expected  to  undertake  research  work  under  the  direction  of 
the  department  of  his  principal  subject,  and  must  submit  a 
thesis  embodying  the  results  of  his  work.     A  student  who 
has  completed  a  general  course  for  the  bachelor  of  arts  de- 
gree may  obtain  the  degree  of  doctor  of  philosophy  after 
not  less  than  three  years  of  graduate  study  and  research 
work.     A  student  who  has  obtained  the  bachelor  of  arts 
degree  with  first  or  second  class  honors  may  obtain  the  doc- 
tor of  philosophy  degree  after  not  less  than  two  years  of 
graduate  study  and  research  work.     Candidates  for  the  de- 
gree of  doctor  of  philosophy  must  submit  a  thesis  and  pass 
a   public   examination.      For   the   year    19 14-15    graduate 
courses  will  be  given  in  biology,  pure  and  applied  mathe- 
matics, and  theoretical  and  experimental  physics. 

From  the  preceding  systematic  schemes  for  academic  and 
scientific  work,  it  would  appear  that  the  Rice  Institute  aspires 
to  university  standing  of  the  highest  grade  as  an  institution 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

of  liberal  and  technical  learning,  dedicated  to  the  advance- 
ment of  letters,  science,  and  art,  by  instruction  and  by  in- 
vestigation, in  the  individual  and  in  the  race,  its  opportuni- 
ties for  study  and  research  being  open,  without  tuition  and 
without   fees,   both  to  young  men   and  to  young  women. 
Moreover,  to  recapitulate  more  broadly,  the  new  university, 
subject  neither  to  political  nor  to  sectarian  affiliations,  is  gov- 
erned by  a  self-perpetuating  board  of  seven  trustees,  elected 
for  life.     Under  a  definite  educational  policy  and  compre- 
hensive architectural  plan,  it  is  being  built  and  maintained 
out  of  the  income  of  its  funds  of  approximately  ten  million 
dollars  for  endowment  and  equipment.     On  its  campus  of 
three  hundred  acres,  in  a  half-dozen  initial  laboratory,  lec- 
ture, and  residential  buildings  of  extraordinary  beauty,  there 
are  at  work  in  the  academic  session  of  19 14-15  a  teaching 
staff  of  some  thirty  members,  all  inspired  by  the  spirit  of 
research,   maintaining   highest   standards   of   entrance   re- 
quirements and  of  scholastic  standing  after  admission,  of- 
fering university  courses  In  liberal  arts,  pure  and  applied 
science,    architecture    and   engineering;   a    small   group   of 
graduate  students  In  mathematics,  physics,  and  biology;  a 
self-governed  democratic  undergraduate  body  of  freshmen, 
sophomores,  and  juniors,  of  more  than  two  hundred  and 
fifty  members,  from  some  seventy-five  towns  In  Texas  and 
fifteen  States  of  the  Union,  the  first  freshman  class  having 
been  received  In  September,  1912,  to  earn  the  first  degrees, 
which  will  be  conferred  In  June,  19 16. 


.1*1 


'» 


ti873 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


VII 

THE  UNIVERSITY:  ITS  SHADES  AND  TOWERS 

NO  sketch  of  the  university's  programme,  however 
slight,  would  be  complete  without  some  descriptive 
account  of  the  general  architectural  plan,  according  to  whose 
principles  of  beauty  and  utility  students  and  staff  are  to  be 
provided  with  theaters  of  action,  groves  for  reflection,  labor- 
atories of  discovery,  libraries  of  knowledge,  fields  for  sport, 
halls  for  speech  and  song,  homes  for  complete  living,  and  all 
dedicated  to  the  freedom  of  sound  learning  and  the  fellow- 
ship of  youth.  At  the  risk  of  repetition,  several  details  of 
this  rather  ambitious  scheme  will  now  be  recited. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  plan  for  fifty  years,  nor  is  it  difficult 
to  plan  for  five  years:  difliculty  enters  only  when  it  is  neces- 
sary to  plan  at  one  and  the  same  time  for  the  immediate 
future  and  for  the  next  hundred  years.    The  problem  is  to 
design  a  scheme  which  is  so  flexible  as  to  be  capable  of  in- 
definite expansion  along  prescribed  lines  of  educational  pol- 
icy and  physical  environment,  and  which  at  the  same  time  is 
sufliciently  compact  and  so  closely  articulated  as  to  be  com- 
fortably and  economically  efficient  in  the  earlier  stages  of  its 
development.     The  plan  about  to  be  described  briefly  is  an 
evolution  out  of  some  thirty-five  or  forty  preliminary  studies. 
In  its  final  form  it  is  believed  to  represent  with  fidelity  the 
educational  programme  of  the  new  institution,  and  to  meet, 
with  some  measure  of  success,  the  demands  of  local  geog- 
raphy, subsequent  growth,  initial  harmony,  and  final  unity. 

Behold  a  campus  of  three  hundred  acres,  a  tract  as  irregu- 
lar in  form  as  if  purchased  in  Boston,  with  four  thousand 


I 


> 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

feet  frontage  on  the  Main  Street  of  Houston.    Unfold  the 
map  we  have  made,  for  a  great  deal  of  the  meaning  of  this 
new  institution  appears  in  its  lanes  and  lawns,  its  walks  and 
drives,  its  cloisters  and  retreats,  its  playing-fields  and  garden 
courts,  its  groups  of  residential  halls  for  men,  its  halls  of 
residence   for  women,   its   gymnasium,   and  stadium,   and 
union,  its  several  quadrangles  of  laboratories  in  science  pure 
and  applied,  its  schools  of  liberal  arts,  of  fine  arts,  of  me- 
chanic arts,  its  chapel  and  choir,  its  lecture-halls  and  amphi- 
theaters, its  Greek  playhouse  and  astronomical  observatory, 
its  great  hall  with  library  and  museum  wings,  its  graduate 
college  of  research  and  professional  schools.     Of  the  four 
main  entrances  to  the  three-hundred-acre  campus,  the  pnn- 
cipal  one  lies  at  the  corner  of  the  grounds  nearest  the  city. 
From  this   entrance  the   approach  to   the  Administration 
Building  is  a  broad  avenue  several  hundred  yards  long,  end- 
ing in  a  fore-court,  which  will  be  bounded  on  the  left  by  the 
School  of  Fine  Arts,  on  the  right  by  the  Residential  College 
for  Women.    The  main  avenue  of  approach  coincides  with 
the  central  axis  of  the  block  plan,  and  from  the  principal 
gateway  opens  up  through  the  vaulted  sally-port  of  the 
Administration  Building  a  vista  of  more  than  a  mile  within 
the  limits  of  the  campus.    After  dividing  at  the  fore-court 
the  driveway  circles  the  ends  of  the  Administration  Building 
and  continues  for  half  a  mile  in  two  heavily  planted  drives 
parallel  to  this  axis  and  separated  by  a  distance  of  seven  hun- 
dred feet.    Within  the  extended  rectangle  thus  formed  the 
pleasing  effect  of  widening  vistas  has  been  realized.     On 
passing  through  the  sally-port  from  the  fore-court,  the  future 
visitor  to  the  Institute  will  enter  upon  an  academic  group 
consisting  of  five  large  buildings,  which  with  their  massive 
cloisters  surround  on  three  sides  a  richly  gardened  court 
measuring  three  hundred  by  five  hundred  feet,  planted  in 

1:189:] 


•i 


«  Ml  ^  K.  -%  <^  ^  %jbk  '^"_'S  JV_"!*r.  ^ ' 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

graceful  cypresses.    Beyond  this  group  Is  another  academic 
court  of  st,ll  greater  dimensions  planted  in  groves  of  live- 
oaks  ;  this  Great  Court  in  turn  opens  into  extensive  Persian 
gardens  beyond  which  the  vista  is  closed  at  the  extreme  west 
by  a  great  pool  and  the  amphitheater  of  a  Greek  playhouse 
i  he  principal  secondary  axis  of  the  general  plan,  starting 
from  the  boulevard  and  running  north  perpendicularly  to 
the  mam  axis,  crosses  the  lawns  and  courts  of  the  Liberal 
Arts  and  Science  groups  into  the  Mechanical  Laboratory  and 
the   Power-house,   the   first  buildings  of  the   Engineering 
Oroup.     The  fourth  entrance  on  Main  Street  leads  to  the 
athletic  playing-fields  and  the  Residential  Colleges  for  Men 
While  each  unit  of  the  latter  group  has  its  own  inner  court' 
the  several  buildings  themselves  together  inclose  a  long  rec- 
tangular court  bounded  at  the  eastern  end  by  a  club-house, 
an  adaptation  of  the  Oxford  Union,  and  on  the  west  by  the 
Gymnasium,  which  opens  on  the  Athletic  Stadium  in  the  rear 
North  of  the  men's  residential  group  and  across  the  Great 
Court,  lying  between  the  Botanical  Gardens  and  the  Labora- 
tories of  Pure  and  Applied  Science,   appear  the  splendid 
quadrangles  of  the  Graduate  School  and  its  professional 
departments;  south  and  west  of  the  latter  quadrangles  will 
rise  the  domes  of  the  Great  Hall  with  its  Library  and  Mu- 
seum wings,  and  the  Astronomical  Observatories,  respec- 

Ahhough  designed  to  accommodate  the  executive  and 
administrative  offices  when  the  Institute  shall  have  grown  to 
normal  dimensions,  the  Administration  Building  will  be  used 
during  the  first  few  years  to  meet  some  of  the  needs  of  in- 
struction  as  well  as  those  of  administration.  The  building 
.s  of  absolutely  fire-proof  construction  throughout ;  it  is  three 
stones  high,  three  hundred  feet  long  and  fifty  feet  deep 
with  a  basement  running  its  entire  length.    Through  a  cen- 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

tral  tower  of  four  stories  a  vaulted  sally-port  thirty  feet 
high,  leading  from  the  main  approach  and  fore-garden  to 
the  academic  court,  gives  entrance  to  the  halls  of  the  build- 
ing and  opens  the  way  to  the  broad  cloisters  on  the  court 
side.  On  the  first  floor,  besides  offices  of  registration,  there 
are  lecture-rooms,  class,  study,  and  conference  rooms.  In 
the  north  wing  of  the  second  floor  the  temporary  plans  make 
adequate  arrangements  for  library  and  reading-rooms;  the 
second  and  third  floors  of  the  south  wing  are  given  to  a  pub- 
lic hall,  which,  with  its  balconies,  extends  to  the  height  of 
two  stories.  A  little  later  on  in  the  history  of  the  Institute 
this  assembly  hall  will  become  the  faculty  chamber.  The 
remaining  part  of  the  third  floor  provides  additional  space 
for  recitation  and  seminar  rooms,  and  offices  for  members 
of  the  teaching  staff.  The  meeting-room  of  the  Board  of 
Trustees  and  the  office  of  the  President  of  the  Institute  are 
located  in  the  tower. 

In  its  architecture  the  Administration  Building  reveals  the 
influence  of  the  earliest  periods  of  the  Mediterranean  coun- 
tries: vaulted  Byzantine  cloisters,  exquisite  Dalmatian  brick- 
work, together  with  Spanish  and  Italian  elements  in  profu- 
sion; all  in  a  richness  of  color  permissible  only  in  climates 
similar  to  our  own.  The  dominant  warm  gray  tone  is  estab- 
lished by  the  use  of  local  pink  brick,  a  delicately  tinted  mar- 
ble from  the  Ozark  Mountains,  and  Texas  granite,  though 
the  color  scheme  undergoes  considerable  variation  by  the 
studied  use  of  tiles  and  foreign  marbles.  To  meet  the  local 
climatic  conditions  the  building  has  been  pierced  by  loggias 
and  many  windows,  while  its  long  shaded  cloister  opens  to 
the  prevailing  winds.  The  corner-stone  of  this  monumental 
structure  was  set  in  place  by  the  trustees  of  the  Institute  on 
the  seventy-fifth  anniversary  of  Texas  independence. 

Two  wings  of  the  first  building  in  the  students'  residen- 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

tial  group  for  men  are  now  ready  for  occupancy      This 
quadrangle,  consisting  of  a  dormitory  and  a  commons,  is 
placed  southwest  of  the  Administration  Building,  its  front 
approach  leading  from  the  fourth  campus  entrance  on  the 
Mam  Street  boulevard.  The  residential  wings  are  long  three- 
story  fire-proof  structures  with  towers  of  five  stories,  broad 
cloisters  on  the  front,  and  basements  extending  the  entire 
length.     Each  wing  opens  upon  a  garden  on  one  side,  and 
on  the  other  upon  its  own  court.    In  arrangement  and  equip- 
ment the  buildmgs  are  modern  and  in  every  way  attractive 
and  convenient.     Accommodations  for  about  two  hundred 
students  are  offered  in  single  and  double  rooms  and  suites. 
Lodgmgs  have  been  provided  for  several  preceptors,  and 
two  large  halls  have  been  set  aside  for  the  temporary  use  of 
literary  and  debating  societies.    The  floors  of  the  wings  are 
so  planned  as  to  insure  for  every  room  perfect  ventilation 
and  absolutely  wholesome  conditions.    There  are  lavatories 
shower-baths,  and  sanitary  connections  adequate  to  the  needs 
of  each  floor;  the  power  for  both  light  and  heat  will  be  re- 
ceived from  the  central  plant.    An  arcade  rather  more  than 
one  hundred  feet  in  length  leads  from  the  dormitory  wing 
across  the  inner  court  to  the  commons  which  constitutes  the 
northern  boundary  of  the  quadrangle.  The  commons  proper 
mcludes  every  detail  necessary  for  the  perfect  service  of  all 
the  men  hymg  in  the  residential  group  and  at  the  same  time 
IS  of  sufiJcent  size  and  capacity  to  serve  other  members  of 
the  student  body.     In  addition  to  the  dining-hall  and  its 
equrpment,  this  section  of  the  building  contains  club  and 
reading  rooms.    It  is  graced  also  by  a  handsome  clock-tower 
four  stones  high,  surmounted  by  a  belfry:  the  several  floors 
of  the  tower  have  been  arranged  In  suites  of  rooms  to  be 
reserved  for  the  use  of  graduate  students  and  instructors. 
As  has  been  intimated  already,  the  other  buildings  under 

^92:1 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

way  propose  to  reveal  in  brick  and  marble  some  of  the  more 
subtle  suggestions  of  the  southern  architecture  of  Europe 
and  the  East,  and  at  the  same  time  to  realize  the  funda- 
mental principles  of  their  sources  in  a  distinctive  style  of 
academic  architecture  for  all  the  future  buildings  of  the 
Institute.  Consistent  with  the  architectural  style  thus 
evolved,  a  pleasing  and  harmonious  variation  appears  in  the 
treatment  of  the  first  residential  group,  whose  several  tow- 
ers and  cloisters  in  brick  and  stucco  are  designed  to  produce 
an  effect  characteristically  Venetian. 

Located  at  the  northern  end  of  the  principal  secondary 
axis  of  the  general  architectural  plan  are  groups  of  scientific 
and  technical  laboratories.  The  first  buildings  of  this  sec- 
tion of  the  campus,  namely,  the  Mechanical  Laboratory, 
Machine-shop,  and  Power-house,  have  been  erected  north 
of  the  Administration  Building  at  the  end  of  a  long  direct 
driveway  from  the  third  Main  Street  entrance.  The  Labor- 
atory, a  two-story  fire-proof  building  two  hundred  feet  long 
and  forty  feet  deep,  with  a  cloister  extending  the  full  length 
of  Its  court  side,  is  built  of  materials  similar  to  those  used  in 
the  construction  of  the  Administration  Building.  The  space 
of  its  floors  will  be  given  to  scientific  laboratories,  lecture- 
halls,  recitation-rooms,  departmental  libraries,  and  oflices 
for  Instructors  In  charge,  while  its  basement  will  afford  addi- 
tional room  for  further  apparatus.  Through  the  Machine- 
shop  the  Mechanical  Laboratory  connects  with  the  Power- 
house, where  is  installed  equipment  for  complete  steam, 
refrigerating,  and  electric  generating  and  distributing  sys- 
tems. The  lofty  campanile  of  this  group,  visible  for  miles 
In  every  direction,  will  probably  be  for  many  years  the  most 
conspicuous  among  the  towers  of  the  Institute. 

Further  improvements  of  the  campus  are  being  gradually 
effected.    An  extensive  concrete  water-proof  tunnel  has  been 

[193] 


.4 


»  f 


( 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 
constructed  to  transmit  power- water,  steam,  electricity,  heat- 
ing, and  cooling- from  the  central  plant  to  all  the  buildings 
on  the  grounds.    With  a  diameter  sufficient  to  admit  a  man 
standing  erect,  the  tunnel  has  ample  space  for  all  wiring  and 
piping  in  positions  easy  of  access,  thus  insuring  perfect  care 
of  the  equipment  and  a  resultant  increase  in  efficiency.  Prog- 
ress has  also  been  made  in  the  installation  of  complete  sani- 
tary and  drainage  systems,  which,  with  an  unlimited  supply 
of  wholesome  water,  should  give  assurance  of  perfect  physi- 
cal conditions  at  the  site  of  the  Institute.    The  most  impor- 
tant driveways,  including  the  main  approach  to  the  Admin- 
istration Building,  the  drives  along  the  axes  leading  to  the 
group  of  scientific  laboratories  and  to  the  students'  residen- 
tial group,  and  the  long  roads  inclosing  the  academic  court, 
have  been  laid  on  deep  foundations  of  gravel  with  surfacing 
of  crushed  granite.    The  planting  of  double  rows  of  oaks, 
elms,  and  cypresses  along  these  drives,  and  the  assembling 
of  hedges,  shrubs,  and  flowers  within  the  gardens  and  courts 
of  the  present  groups,  will  subsequently  impress  even  ^he 
casual  visitor  both  with  the  magnitude  and  with  the  beauty 
of  the  general  architectural  plan. 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


D943 


VIII 


THE  UNIVERSITY:  ITS  STRENGTH  AND  SUPPORT 


it  ' 


T 


IS  not  the  walls  that  make  the  city,  but  the  men" ;  and 
the  men  in  the  day  of  Pericles  were  freemen  who  *'pur- 
sued  culture  in  a  manly  spirit,  and  beauty  without  extrava- 
gance.'' Such  freemen  are  the  men  that  build  the  university. 
The  strength  of  this  foundation  lies  in  its  freedom:  the 
freedom  to  think  independently  of  tradition;  the  freedom  to 
deal  directly  with  its  problems  without  red  tape ;  the  freedom 
to  plan  and  execute  vouchsafed  by  the  will  of  the  founder 
and  the  charter  of  his  foundation;  the  freedom  of  his  seven 
trustees,  seven  freemen,  who  approach  its  problems  of  or- 
ganization, policy,  and  aim,  without  educational  prejudices 
to  stultify,  without  partisan  bias  to  hinder,  without  sectarian 
authority  to  satisfy,  with  open  minds  accustomed  to  large 
problems,  with  clear  heads  experienced  in  tracking  the  minut- 
est details  of  business;  seven  men  always  ready  to  reason 
together,  steady  and  conscientious  in  reaching  conclusions, 
quick  and  decisive  in  action  when  through  common  counsel 
they  have  come  to  a  common  mind  respecting  any  line  of 
action.  Indeed,  in  no  circumstance  has  the  new  institution 
been  more  fortunate  than  in  the  circumstance  that  the  foun- 
dation and  its  future  are  held  in  trust  by  a  half-dozen 
Texans,  men  who  have  the  blood  of  the  pioneers  in  their 
veins,  the  purpose  and  courage  of  the  pioneers  in  their 
hearts,  themselves  successful  men  of  affairs,  who  with  the 
characteristic  mindedness  imposed  by  the  magnitude  of  the 
State  itself,  desire  only  the  best,  seek  only  the  best,  and 
think  in  none  but  large  terms  of  any  problem  or  enterprise. 

1:1953 


•A: 


*     f 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

For  this  reason  it  is  easy  to  dare  and  to  do  great  things  in 
Texas,  for  the  men  who  have  been  winning  this  empire  are 
to  a  man  dominated  by  imperial  ideas  for  it.    The  dominant 
idea  of  these  trustees  is  that  here  in  Texas  there  should  arise 
an  institution  great  for  the  future  of  Texas.    Believing  that 
the  best  is  none  too  good  for  the  sons  and  daughters  of 
Texas,  and  determined  to  give  to  Texans  a  better  Texas, 
these  men  have  not  hesitated  to  command  the  services  of 
men  and  material  and  machinery  whenever  and  wherever 
the^  best  of  such  services  was  to  be  commanded.     And  in 
their  freedom  these  trustees  are  building  for  the  founder  a 
university  whose  greatest  strength  likewise  is  in  its  freedom: 
in  the  freedom  of  its  faculties  of  science,  humanity,  and 
technology,  to  teach  and  to  search-each  man  a  freeman  to 
teach  the  truth  as  he  finds  it,  each  man  a  freeman  to  seek 
the  truth  wherever  truth  may  lead:  in  the  freedom  to  serve 
the  State  because  entangled  in  no  way  with  the  government 
of  the  State,  and  the  freedom  to  serve  the  Church  because 
vexed  by  none  of  the  sectarian  differences  that  disturb  the 
heart  of  the  Church. 

While  we  rejoice  in  our  freedom  from  Church  or  State 
control,  we  rejoice  none  the  less  in  the  work  of  these  funda- 
mental  and  indispensable  agencies  of  civilization,  for  we  can 
conceive  of  no  university  in  whose  life  there  does  not  appear 
the  energy  and  enthusiasm,  the  affection  and  the  calm,  that 
we  associate  in  one  way  or  another  with  reverence,  patriot- 
ism,  politics,  and  religion.    Hence  to  us,  quite  as  important 
as  is  a  university's  freedom  from  control  by  State  or  Church, 
are  its  right  relations  to  each  of  these  two  institutions,  be- 
cause upon  principles  of  order,  conduct,  and  knowledge  is 
based  our  faith  in  the  capacity  of  the  human  spirit  for  prog- 
ress,  and  without  such  basic  faith  all  theories  of  education 
become  either  confused  or  futile.    As  a  matter  of  fact,  any 


■A 


»  I 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


VN1VER5ITY  OF  TEXAS 

AV5TIN -TEXAS 
October  -  g  - 1012 

THE  imrVBRSITY  OP  TEXAS 
ON  THB  OCCASION  OF  THE 
INAUGURATION  OP  T^  WAl- 
M-  RICB  INSTITUTE  SENDS 
GREETING  AND  HEARTFELT 
WISHES  FOR  ITS  PROSPBRtTr- 
PIMNED  UN3ERTE  ENUGHT- 
ENED  GUIDANCE  OP  PRESI- 
DENT LO\-ETr,  SUPPORTED 
BY  ABUNDANT  RESOURCES, 
SUSTAINED  BY  A  lOlAL  CITT 
THE  INSTITUTE  CANNOT 
FAI L  TO  PIAY  A  PART  OP 
SPLENDID  HELPFULNESS  IN 
THE  UPBUIIDING  OP  TEXAS- 


^j^/ih^diu^ 


iized  life  or  nii-.ti  m  coiiiiiiuriUiCb  01  vuicurc;  aaa  rc:>iriiuu 
^  ^  demand  for  its  very  existence  the  three  great 
ttal   requirements   I  have  just  namea-  v  rde:'     --^^^■ 
vvledge;   and  these  three  primary  requisite 
""ssion   in    the    i"o^m<;    rjf   f!  t^rrat    ln5*''*"nfinn«5  -  fhp 

ue,  the  Church,  ana  cue  i>nrvc-fsri v.     Th^  istitatjon^ 

iemselves  are  not  fixed  and  final  but  {'w 

'^tly  in  the  flow  of  change,  m  trar.M 


^)^J'^. 


d  and  a 


•  n:; 


rrter,  to  meet  new  requirements  of  a 
wing  humanity.     I:^  ♦:heir  prescn 
^tate,  the  master  of  the  sword  and  peace;  tiie  <.-iiurcn,  the 
guardian  of  the  soul  and  pu^^v:  the  Univf^rsitv.  rhp  ^ervtifit 
>f  each  of  them  in  preserving  co  ineri  the  masicry  •>!  aicir 
^nirits.     The  State  guarantee'  ersirv  in 

'  jal  freedom,  to  the  Church 

'^siiy    in    freedom    o?      :  and    research    co  v 

iching  the  St:.  i,'--''*'^' 

?:rantly  recalling  the  Lhurch  to  the  theones  of  lit  1 

ill  men  are  made  free*  ^h?*  rh-.Trrh  \r\  \x^  turn  'T2sfnjr?r'i*j  : 
Nation  and  supporting  uic  University  tn  mga  ivicaii  • 
ress  and  ultimit;-  r  Thes**  th^-ee  ins^!rnt?'>n«  co'v 

rute  the  triple  ulnLinv; 


/ittiui; .  «.i;c 


Iw    j.-  X  iCOt. 


and  the  professor,  the  great  progress,  pre- 

serving to  citizen,  saint,  and  sch^  lorn,  intel- 

lectual freedom,  religious  freedor  .uanteeuig  to  all  lib- 
''^^v  in  the  pursuit  of  happiness,  lib^-rtv  in  tht^^  n'Trsiiit  o^ 
knowledge,  liberty  in  the  pursuit  of  heaven.  Tlus  uirceroiei 
freedom,  this  threefold  liberty,  brings  to  -^aint,  and 

scholar  corresponding  obligations.     Thc'*'  obliga- 

tion, greatest  service,  indixidual  and  collective  co  the  State 
is  to  enlighten  public  opinion;  to  the  Chu'-^^  ^'=;  to  cr^^^^^-^ 
faith;  to  the  University,  is  to  save  the  human  race  \ 

univer<5n]  i^dncn*-ion,  universal  but  not  necessarily  un. 


■i^ 


\ 


t    i 


"'-';,—■ ,jUiLHX'Ll.'-.-,  W'lJU-  juu-ii.  ■■Ji'-u-UMUMBm-agg! 


ii^ 


XAS 


\  'T'OCfT 


'UNl    ,  TRE^OIIRG. 

I.        KVnrUTE'  CA.    . 
r-M     .  3  PLAY  A  P\ST 

illX)fNG  OP  TR^~  ;• 


■  ^»*<<i%,c44if L 


I 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

civilized  life  of  men  in  communities  of  culture  and  restraint 
does  demand  for  its  very  existence  the  three  great  funda- 
mental requirements  I  have  just  named— order,  conduct, 
knowledge;  and  these  three  primary  requisites  find  their 
expression  in  the  forms  of  three  great  institutions— the 
State,  the  Church,  and  the  University.  These  institutions 
themselves  are  not  fixed  and  final  but  fluid  and  forming,  con- 
stantly in  the  flow  of  change,  in  transition  from  good  to 
better,  to  meet  new  requirements  of  a  changing  world  and  a 
growing  humanity.  In  their  present  mutual  relations,  the 
State,  the  master  of  the  sword  and  peace;  the  Church,  the 
guardian  of  the  soul  and  purity;  the  University,  the  servant 
of  each  of  them  in  preserving  to  men  the  mastery  of  their 
spirits.  The  State  guaranteeing  to  the  University  intellec- 
tual freedom,  to  the  Church  religious  freedom;  the  Uni- 
v^ersity  in  freedom  of  thought  and  research  constantly 
enriching  the  State  with  the  theory  of  its  own  greatness,  con- 
stantly recalling  the  Church  to  the  theories  of  life  wherein 
all  men  are  made  free;  the  Church  In  its  turn  sustaining  the 
Nation  and  supporting  the  University  In  high  ideals  of  prog- 
ress and  ultimate  triumph.  These  three  Institutions  consti- 
tute the  triple  alliance  of  civilization:  the  patriot,  the  priest, 
and  the  professor,  the  great  triumvirate  of  progress,  pre- 
serving to  citizen,  saint,  and  scholar  political  freedom,  intel- 
lectual freedom,  religious  freedom,  guaranteeing  to  all  lib- 
erty in  the  pursuit  of  happiness,  liberty  in  the  pursuit  of 
knowledge,  liberty  In  the  pursuit  of  heaven.  This  threefold 
freedom,  this  threefold  liberty,  brings  to  citizen,  saint,  and 
scholar  corresponding  obligations.  Their  greatest  obliga- 
tion, greatest  service,  individual  and  collective,  to  the  State 
is  to  enlighten  public  opinion ;  to  the  Church,  is  to  conserve 
faith;  to  the  University,  Is  to  save  the  human  race  through 
universal  education,  universal  but  not  necessarily  uniform, 


T. 


\? 


'      * 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

voluntary  where  possible,  compulsory  when  necessary,  com- 
petitive and  selective  always. 

These  obligations  the  State  and  the  Church  have  made 
noble  efforts  to  meet  in  Texas.  From  the  early  days  of  the 
Republic  the  Church  has  been  the  founder  of  colleges  and 
the  State  the  patron  of  learning.  Each  is  constantly  seeking 
for  its  institutions  the  means  for  better  equipment,  for  larger 
endowment,  for  greater  efficiency  in  service.^    We  honor  the 

1  In  most  recent  days,  on  the  initiative  and  faith  of  one  man,  Mr.  Will  C. 
Hogg  of  Houston,  an  alumnus  of  the  University  of  Texas  and  son  of  a  dis- 
tinguished governor  of  this  common vs^ea  1th,  there  has  been  formed  and  en- 

J^l'^'w"^^''  ^^^  auspices  of  the  University  of  Texas  Alumni  Association,  of 
which  Mr.  Edwin  B.  Parker  of  Houston  is  president,  an  Organization  for 
the  Enlargement  by  the  State  of  Texas  of  Its  Higher  Institutions  of  Learning. 
Ihis  so-called  Hogg  Organization  is  prosecuting  its  work  under  a  Board  of 
Control  of  which  Dr.  Sidney  E.  Mezes,  president  of  the  University  of  Texas 
IS  chairman,  Mr.  F.  M.  Bralley,  State  superintendent  of  public  instruction,  is 
executive  secretary,  and  Mr.  Arthur  Lefevre,  formerly  State  superintendent 
ot  public   instruction,   is  secretary  for   research.     Among  the  objects  of  the 
present  programme  of  this  organization  is  the  education  of  public  opinion, 
from  platform,  press,  and  pulpit,  by  frank  accounts  of  the  present  equipment 
ot  the  educational  institutions  directly  under  the  patronage  of  the  State  of 
Texas,  and  by  comparative  studies  based  on  the  history  of  the  State  institu- 
tions of  other  States  of  the  Union.     This  movement  has  as  its  final  object— 
and  this  final  object  is  bound  in  time  to  be  attained— the  removal  of  all  the 
State-supported  educational   institutions,   namely,  the  Agricultural   and   Me- 
chanical College  of  Texas,  the  College  of  Industrial  Arts,  the  several  State 
Normal  Schools,  and  the  University  of  Texas,  entirely  from  the  sphere  of 
political  influence,  and  their  relief  from  the  necessity  of  depending  on  appeals 
to  the  legislative  bodies  of  the  State  government  for  periodical  appropriations 
to  meet  expenses  of  maintenance  and  equipment. 

And  the  denominational  institutions  are  keeping  pace.    The  Baptists,  with 
the  help  of  a  donation  from  the  General  Education  Board  of  the  Rockefeller 
I  oundation,  are  adding  substantially  to  the  endowment  of  Baylor  University 
under  the   leadership  of  President  Samuel  P.  Brooks;   the  Christians,  burnt 
out  at  Waco,  are  building  at  Fort  Worth  a  new  Texas  Christian  University 
under  the  presidency  of  Dr.  Frederick  D.  Kershner ;  the  Methodists  are  adding 
to  the  resources  of  Southwestern  University  at  Georgetown  under  President 
Charles  M.  Bishop,   and  with  the  assistance  of  an  appropriation  from  the 
Rockefeller  Foundation  are  building  in  Dallas  a  new  institution  to  be  called 
the   Southern   Methodist   University,  with   Dr.  Robert  S.   Hyer  as  president- 
while   the   Presbyterians   are    rebuilding  Austin    College   at   Sherman   unde^ 
President  Thomas   S.   Clyce,   are   seeking   increased   endowment   for   Trinity 
Lniversity  at  Waxahachie  under  President  Samuel  L.  Hornbeak,  and,  under 
the   leadership   of  the   president  of   their   educational   board.   Dr.  Robert   E 
Vinson  of  Austin,  are  proposing  to  add  at  least  one  new  college  to  their  list 
of  institutions  in  Texas.    Moreover,  at  the  Rice  Institute  we  have  already  felt 
the  influence  of  the  educational  institutions  maintained  by  the  Catholic  Church 
at  Dallas,  Galveston.  Houston,  San  Antonio,  and  other  points  in  Texas,  and 
we  have  also  felt  a  similar  influence  on  the  part  of  the  Hebrew  faith  which 
has  not  been   lacking  in  stimulating  the  development  of  education   and  the 
advancement  of  learning  in  Texas. 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

State  and  the  Church  for  the  work  they  have  done.  Even 
more  do  we  honor  them  for  the  greater  work  they  are  pro- 
posing to  do,  for  education  in  Texas.  We  modestly  but 
confidently  hope  to  aid  them  in  this  work,  for  it  would  be 
pleasant  to  think  that  this  new  university  in  Texas  is  the 
best  thing  that  could  have  happened  to  every  other  university 
of  Texas.  The  pioneers  believed  in  education  for  all  the 
people  as  the  surest  safeguard  of  their  free  institutions.  Said 
Sam  Houston,  "The  benefits  of  education  and  of  useful 
knowledge,  generally  diffused  through  a  community,  are 
essential  to  the  preservation  of  a  free  government."  Said 
Mirabeau  B.  Lamar,  ''Cultivated  mind  is  the  guardian 
genius  of  democracy.  ...  It  is  the  only  dictator  that  free- 
men acknowledge  and  the  only  security  that  freemen  desire." 
With  these  pioneers  we  their  successors  believe  that  in  the 
character  of  the  cultivated  citizen  lies  the  strength  of  the 
civilized  State.  In  writing  thus  a  cardinal  article  of  our 
creed  I  have  used  the  phrase  "cultivated  citizen"  deliberately 
and  advisedly.  I  am  quick  to  take  off  my  hat  to  the  self- 
made  man,  and  among  people  so  democratic  as  is  this  people 
there  will  never  come  a  time  when  any  door  of  opportunity 
will  be  closed  to  him.  But  the  race  with  the  college-trained 
man  the  self-made  man  is  finding  a  race  severer  and  severer. 
Even  as  recently  as  a  decade  ago  the  college  man  was  com- 
pelled to  defend  the  course  he  had  pursued,  but  more  lately, 
in  business  as  In  professional  life,  his  demonstrated  and  en- 
during potentialities  have  been  steadily  and  surely  placing 
him  in  the  lead.  Nor  In  public  life  has  It  come  to  pass  by 
accident  In  our  national  history,  that  the  leading  candidates 
in  the  last  two  presidential  campaigns  should  have  been 
graduates  of  Harvard  and  Yale,  respectively,  and  the  three 
leading  candidates  In  the  present  presidential  campaign  be 
graduates,  respectively,  of  the  oldest,  the  next  oldest,  and 

1:199] 


i      f 


I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

the  next  to  the  next  oldest  of  American  colleges,  Theodore 
Roosevelt  of  Harvard,  William  Howard  Taft  of  Yale,  and 
Woodrow  Wilson  of  Princeton.    That  our  best  trained  men 
are  showing  a  growing  disposition  to  enter  earnestly  into 
political  life,  is  a  most  encouraging  sign  for  the  future  of 
our  government.     For  an  increasing  number  of  our  men 
of  education  are  entering  the  field  of  public  life  to  possess 
it  for  the  common  weal,  and  they  are  transforming  it  into 
a  place  where  men  may  take  up  their  residence,  live  honestly, 
and  be  held  in  honor.     In  disinterested  public  service  they 
are  transforming  the  politics  of  the  professional  politician, 
whose  problems  are  sometimes  mean,  into  the  politics  of  the 
statesman  and  patriot,  whose  problems  are  always  large.    I 
believe  in  holding  up  careers  in  practical  politics  as  inviting 
ones  to  vigorous  young  men  of  broad  academic  training,  men 
of  the  same  fiber  and  stuff  and  consecration  as  are  those  who 
turn  their  backs  on  remunerative  callings  and  possible  com- 
mercial success  to  enter  the  ministry  and  other  humanitarian 
professions.    Honor  might  come  slowly,  but  honors  are  not 
the  chief  thing,  though  I  know  of  no  more  inviting  or  prom- 
ising field  where  a  man  might  hope  to  gain  the  world  of 
greatest  opportunity  and  at  the  same  time  save  his  own  soul 
in  unselfish  service  to  his  fellow  men.     It  was  to  just  such 
disinterested  active  participation  in  public  life  that  one  of 
our  great  presidents,  the  late  Grover  Cleveland,  called  his 
fellow  citizens  at  a  notable  academic  celebration  several 
years  ago.     *'Of  the  many  excellent  speeches  at  the  two 
hundred   and   fiftieth   anniversary   of   Harvard   College," 
wrote  the  late  Mandell  Creighton  to  the  London  Times,' 
"none  was  of  more  general  interest  than  that  of  President 
Cleveland,  who,  with  great  modesty,  deplored  his  lack  of 
university  education,  and  exhorted  men  of  learning  to  take 
a  greater  part  in  public  affairs.    *Any  disinclination,'  he  said, 

1:2003 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

*on  the  part  of  the  most  learned  and  cultured  of  our  citizens 
to  mingle  in  public  affairs,  and  the  consequent  abandonment 
of  political  activity  to  those  who  have  but  little  regard  for 
the  student  and  the  scholar,  are  not  favorable  conditions 
under  a  government  such  as  ours.  And  if  they  have  existed 
to  a  damaging  extent,  recent  events  appear  to  indicate  that 
the  education  and  conservatism  of  the  land  are  to  be  here- 
after more  plainly  heard  in  the  expression  of  the  popular 
will.'  " 

Texans  have  not  been  slow  in  responding  to  calls  to  public 
service  from  State  or  Nation.  Such  calls  they  have  not  in- 
frequently answered  with  conspicuous  public  service.  But  if 
Texas  has  sent  publicists  to  Washington,  bankers,  college 
executives,  and  railway  presidents  to  San  Francisco,  St. 
Louis,  Chicago,  and  New  York,  Texas  has  hardly  held  her 
own  with  the  rest  of  the  country  in  science  and  scholarship, 
whose  service  is  equally  important  to  State  and  society.  Nor 
in  this  respect  has  the  South  as  a  whole  held  her  own,  but 
for  that  matter  the  country  itself  is  just  beginning  to  hold 
its  own  in  science  and  scholarship  with  the  rest  of  the  world, 
and  there  are  better  days  ahead  of  Texas  and  the  South. 
These  better  days  will  call  for  leisure  as  well  as  learning, 
for  the  philosopher  as  well  as  the  promoter,  for  men  of 
daring  to  think  as  well  as  men  of  courage  to  act,  for  men 
whose  thoughts  are  their  deeds,  men  who  can  exclaim  with 
Hegel,  "Das  Denken  ist  auch  Gottesdienst."  The  call  to 
the  vocation  of  scholar  or  scientist  this  address  makes  a 
thousand  times,  from  its  initial  line  to  its  final  paragraph. 
Where  it  is  not  a  call  it  is  a  charge  or  a  challenge,  and  ap- 
peal follows  on  appeal  where  argument  does  not  follow 
argument.  A  great  wave  of  agitation  and  enthusiasm  for 
vocational  education  has  been  passing  over  the  entire  coun- 
try.    We  have  felt  the  force  of  this  wave,  but  on  the  top 


i< 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

of  the  wave  the  Rice  Institute  would  place  vocational  educa- 
tion for  science,  for  scholarship,  for  citizenship,  training  for 
the  vocation  of  scientist,  training  for  the  vocation  of  scholar, 
training  for  the  vocation  of  citizen.    There  is  not  a  man  in 
this  company  to-day  who  does  not  envy  the  inventive  scholar 
his  idealism,  his  intellectual  freedom,  his  fearless  pursuit  of 
truth,  his  persistent  devotion  to  the  things  of  the  spirit.  Nor 
is  there  a  man  within  earshot  who  does  not  envy  the  practical 
philosopher  his  resourceful,  practical  sense.     In  these  reac- 
tions we  have  one  of  the  larger  ends  of  education,  for  one  of 
the  great  ends  of  education  as  a  social  work  in  our  time  is 
on  the  one  hand  to  glorify  the  workaday  world  with  the 
idealism  of  the  poet  and  painter,  the  preacher  and  professor, 
and  on  the  other  hand  to  humanize  and  inform  the  world  of 
science  and  art  and  letters  with  the  practical  purpose  and 
poise  of  the  calculating  captains  of  industry  and  commerce. 
Perhaps  I  may  combine  the  two  orders  of  ideas  on  which 
I  have  touched  in  no  better  way  than  by  saying  that  learning 
in  our  day  is  no  longer  an  affair  of  the  cloister  and  the  clinic 
alone;  it  is  also  of  the  mill,  the  market-place,  and  the  ma- 
chine-shop.    In  fact,  a  not  unfamiliar  conception  of  the  uni- 
versity itself  is  that  of  a  mill  for  converting  the  youth  of 
the  commonwealth  into  citizens  of  the  State.     Its  function 
is  to  transform  mind  into  a  higher  order  of  mind;  the  mind 
of  the  individual,  the  mind  of  the  community,  the  mind  of 
the  State,  the  mind  of  the  race,  into  a  higher  order  of  mind. 
Its  business  is  to  train  efficient  thinking  men  for  the  business 
of  life.     In  reality,  the  earliest  mediaeval  universities  were 
professional  and  technical  schools.     It  was  largely  as  a  pro- 
fessional school  for  the  training  of  the  minister  and  the 
schoolmaster  that  the   early  American   college   flourished. 
The  original  learned  professions  were  theology,  medicine, 
and  law.    We  are  adding  engineering  to  this  original  list  by 

1:202;] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

making  its  elemental  doctrines  the  means  of  liberal  culture 
as  well  as  the  groundwork  for  a  profession  which  is  funda- 
mental to  all  industrial  and  commercial  progress.  Similarly 
we  are  adding  architecture  and  education,  and  a  little  later 
agriculture.  With  us,  men  for  these  professions  are  to  be 
scientifically  equipped  through  special  training  based  on  a 
broad  foundation  of  liberal  education.  And  as  regards  this 
broad  foundation  of  liberal  education,  our  ideas  of  liberal 
and  technical  learning  have  been  experiencing  a  transition 
from  rather  strict  delimitation  to  bounds  broader  and 
broader.  By  liberal  learning  we  no  longer  mean  the  so- 
called  classical  humanities  alone,  but  also  the  new  humanism 
constituted  of  modern  civilization  and  modern  culture,  of 
modern  letters  and  modern  science.  And  by  a  foundation 
for  technical  training  in  applied  science  we  now  mean  the 
great  range  of  physical  sciences  which  at  one  time  could  be 
subsumed  under  the  term  natural  philosophy;  the  great 
range  of  active  biological  sciences  which  have  developed 
from  the  ancient  descriptive  science  of  natural  history;  the 
great  range  of  psychological  and  philosophical  sciences 
which,  under  the  Influence  of  scientific  method,  have  grown 
out  of  the  older  mental  and  moral  philosophy;  and  finally, 
the  larger  range  where  men  are  still  seeking  science,  in  which 
the  sciences  of  matter  and  of  life  and  of  mind  are  to  be 
extended  to  the  crowd,  to  the  community,  and  to  civilization 
itself  as  objects. 

In  the  immediately  preceding  paragraphs  of  this  section 
of  my  remarks  I  have  spoken  of  the  strength  that  the  new 
university  possesses  in  its  freedom,  in  its  faith,  and  in  Its 
faculties  of  science,  humanity,  and  technology,  as  well  as  in 
the  financial  resources  of  Its  foundation.  I  have  also  pointed 
out  several  ways  In  which  that  strength  Is  to  Issue  In  service 
to  State  and  Church  and  society  through  science  and  schol- 

1:2033 


1^^ 


-n 


.  I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

arship  and  citizenship.  In  the  several  concluding  para- 
graphs I  desire  to  call  attention  to  certain  other  sources  of 
strength  and  support— sources  of  human  strength  that  sup- 
port the  university— and  to  some  aspects  of  the  larger  rela- 
tions of  a  university's  life. 

Education  does  not  begin  with  the  university,  nor  does  it 
end  in  the  university.    It  is  a  matter  of  life,  the  whole  span 
of  life,  and  both  before  and  after.     The  Church  finds  its 
continuance  beyond  the  death  of  a  man,  and  science  has  been 
teaching  the  State  to  look  for  its  beginnings  far  in  advance 
of  the  birth  of  the  child.    *Ts  it  not  s4:range,"  asks  Thomas 
Traherne,  ''that  a  little  child  should  be  heir  to  the  whole 
world?"     To  secure  that  heritage  for  the  child,  man's  col- 
lective force  and  knowledge  conspire,  in  a  century  "in  which 
the  care  and  love  of  children  have  taken  their  place  as  the 
first  general  solicitude  of  all  civilized  societies."     Ours  has 
been  called  the  century  of  the  child.     No  known  age  of  the 
world's  history  before  our  own  could  have  painted  the  pic- 
ture of  ''the  innumerable  children  all  round  the  world  troop- 
ing morning  by  morning  to  school,  along  the  lanes  of  quiet 
villages,  the  streets  of  noisy  cities,  on  sea-shore  and  lake- 
side, under  the  burning  sun,  and  through  the  mists,  in  boats 
on  canals,  on  horseback  on  the  plains,  in  sledges  on  the  snow, 
by  hill  and  valley,  through  bush  and  stream,  by  lonely  moun- 
tain path,  singly,  in  pairs,  in  groups,  in  files,  dressed  in  a 
thousand   fashions,   speaking  a  thousand  tongues."     This 
panorama  of  the  world  repeats  itself  in  Texas.     In  the 
schools  for  the  children  of  Texas  and  the  South  lie  the 
deeper  roots  of  this  new  university's  life.    The  foundations 
on  which  we  build  are  laid  by  these  schools  of  the  State  and 
the  Church.    The  upper  limit  of  their  work  determines  the 
lower  limit  of  ours.     On  the  religious  side,  the  foundations 
are  laid  by  the  Sunday-schools  and  the  private  preparatory 


I 

I 


\. 


i ^  ^^v 


1 

v 

r 

> 

1 

-\  ,-^ 

^  « v;: 

..^  . 

^ 

k 

« 

1.'  ■ 

■-. 

r 

1 

/ 

V  .- 

1 

1^  ^  ^^  V J^^  . 


v;  ^i 


M 


"H 


'^'^^•' 


\.^ 


..lilW. •j'mmm-m^  ■ 


port  toe   00; 

iiaucat 

e- 

0 


Wiuid 

tur€  of 
villn 


i'  STITUTE 

enship.  the   several  concluding  para- 

on  t.        -f^'i  o^her  sources  of 
'^PP  '  strength  that  sup- 

its  of  the  larger  rela- 

rsity,  nor  does  it 

the  whole  sp:ui 

i  he  Church  finds  its 

^i-?r5,  inH  Qrw-n-e  has  been 

n  advance 
Thomas 
vvhole 
man's  col- 
»n  which 
ice  as  the 
Ours  has 
\G  Known  age  of  the 
tory  berore  our  own  could  have  painted  the  pic- 
"he  fnnumera^-^-  <^hildren  all  round  the  world  troop- 
-mg         lormng  to  school,  along  the  lanes  of  quiet 
'Streets  of  nolsv  rJti.-c    on  sea-shore  and  lake- 
I  sun,  and  tarough  the  mists,  in  boats 
♦-he  rlains,  in  sledges  on  the  snow, 
:>i*  aiiu  i^irciirn,  by  lonely  moun- 
j,roups,  in  file*?,  dressed  in  a 


ttiat 

kno'i'/h-^fl-  . 

hrst  general  soiicituvie  of  ^!|  d'^ilizfd  <:n. 


th 


/^  i  1  s"  '  •  .'• 


ai«4 


d^ 


the  Ch' 


build 

Thr 


ers.iy  s  Utt 
the* 


laid  1 


>iigucs.        l^his 

Texas      In  the 

<,.„*\^  lie  the 

oundations 

^he  State  and 

urk  viecermines  the 

he  foundations 

wiie  preparatory 


•  *-« 


^ 

^K^ 


1    <i 


^ 


z 
u 

OQ 
Id 


V     -J 


^.^^  S  S)  VK^  '  Vj,.  -  ^^  L.-'^ 


3 

u 
a 
o 

z 


•I' 

I) 


^ 


^ 


V 


^ 

?-^ 

.t  ^, 

^'^ 

■^i-^ 

^•^i 

-r; 

^  C 

n; 

V  .% 

'^;:^^ 

^^ 

\^  1 

- 

^i  ^ 

^\^  c;:;. 

-\^ 

^ 


\ 


\ 


^ 


■   5  Tr.'- 


^1  ^  ^  '^ 


■5 


•»  ■J 
X 


1 


.^^^ 


^ik 


-     -     *^   \ 


^ 


^.  \^ 


^^ 


1^ 


V 


V     t:    .-     -  \i    ^ 


"^ 


1^  t.^' 


..t^ 

>;  d 


n9> 


•<4 


'>^    .^ 


\  .■ 


V. 


;>4xv  "v.-i^,  4H<i<  <  «i^ 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

schools  maintained  by  the  churches;  on  the  secular  side,  by 
the  public  schools  maintained  out  of  public  funds,  and  by 
private  secondary  schools  which  may  or  may  not  be  indepen- 
dent of  religious  control.  In  America  the  separation  of 
State  and  Church  is  sharp  and  distinct  in  matters  of  gov- 
ernment; this  separation  is  also  sharp  and  distinct  in  matters 
of  education.  Religious  teaching  thus  excluded  from  the 
public  day-schools  is  being  systematically  and  thoroughly 
promoted  in  the  Sunday-schools  of  the  churches.  Through 
steady  and  marked  improvement  in  their  teachers,  their 
methods,  their  equipment,  their  curriculum,  their  grading, 
and  their  results,  these  Sunday-schools  are  becoming  entitled 
to  rank  as  a  part  of  our  national  system  of  education.  As 
regards  the  schools  for  secular  education  in  the  older  States 
of  the  South,  we  find  that,  largely  because  of  strong  individu- 
alistic tendencies  in  those  States,  the  private  preparatory 
school  has  flourished.  The  oldest  State  university  in  the 
South,  namely,  the  University  of  Virginia,  was  until  recently 
fed  almost  exclusively  by  private  schools  all  over  the  South, 
manned  by  University  of  Virginia  men.  But  the  wave  of 
public  education,  from  its  earliest  springs  of  source  in 
Massachusetts  and  Virginia,  has  spread  over  the  whole 
South,  until  now  from  Virginia  to  Texas  each  State  is  build- 
ing from  the  moneys  of  its  public  chest  an  educational  high- 
way for  all  its  children  from  kindergarten  to  university. 
This  wave,  however,  has  not  submerged  completely  the 
private  schools.  Many  of  these  private  foundations  still 
survive  through  providing  advantages  of  small  classes,  indi- 
vidual instruction,  personal  supervision,  and  personal  contact 
in  smaller  academic  communities — advantages  which  the  pub- 
lic schools  are  not  yet  able  to  offer  in  the  same  degree.  Nor 
is  this  wave  of  public  education  beating  in  vain  upon  the  low- 
lands and  the  highlands  of  Texas,  for  any  inquiry  into  public 

1:2053 


I1 


\\ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


education  in  Texas  would  show  steady  growth  and  improve- 
ment, from  earnest  beginnings,  in  at  least  four  things:  the 
laws  concerning  education;  the  subjects  of  instruction  and 
programmes  of  study;  the  organization  of  the  teaching,  in- 
cluding training  and  supervision;  and  the  administration  of 
the  laws  and  of  the  departments  created  under  them.  This 
is  neither  the  time  nor  the  place  to  go  into  details  concerning 
public  education  in  Texas,  but  a  few  further  general  observa- 
tions may  perhaps  be  made  with  propriety.  When  the  his- 
tory of  public  education  in  Texas  comes  to  be  written,  the 
chapter  recording  the  history  of  our  own  time  will  show  that 
the  people  who  are  taking  thought  for  education  in  Texas 
realize  that  for  State  as  for  private  education  deliberate 
organization  is  necessary,  inspired  by  an  adequate  theory  of 
education— a  theory  distilled  from  the  accumulated  history 
of  education,  a  spirit  of  conscientious  striving  to  deal  with 
three  questions:  Why  is  education  undertaken?  What  to 
teach  so  as  to  achieve  the  ends  of  education?  How  to  teach 
so  as  to  educate?  That  same  chapter  of  history  will  show 
that  if,  with  the  inevitable  hospitality  of  a  new  country  where 
all  things  are  open  to  experiment,  there  has  been  a  somewhat 
too  ready  acceptance  of  novelties  in  education,  there  has  also 
been  deep  moral  earnestness  with  its  abhorrence  of  sem- 
blances and  shams,  for  with  us  a  thorough  desire  to  bring 
all  current  opinions— for  example,  the  educational  doctrines 
of  such  earnest  enthusiasts  as  Mr.  Edmond  G.  A.  Holmes 
of  London,  Dr.  Georg  Kerschensteiner  of  Munich,  and  Dr. 
Maria  Montessori  of  Rome— to  the  test  of  experience  and 
judgment  by  results,  has  always  been  accompanied  by  a  feel- 
ing of  the  moral  duty  of  spreading  knowledge,  of  populariz- 
ing the  results  of  study  and  making  them  known  to  all.  It 
will  show  increasing  desire  of  our  people  for  a  good  race 
and  good  government,  for  the  city  beautiful  and  the  country 

1:2063 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

beautiful,  for  good  conscience  in  matters  of  truth  and  good 
conscience  in  things  of  taste— a  desire  remaining  without  rest 
and  unsatisfied  until  all  the  children  of  the  State  shall  be  in 
school  all  the  time  for  nine  months  of  every  calendar  year. 
That  same  chapter  will  also  show  quick  response  to  the 
present   popular  movements   for   social   centers   and  play 
grounds,  and  more  general  recognition  of  the  right  of  every 
child  to  live  and  grow  up  to  the  full  stature  of  a  man,  and 
the  right  of  every  man  that  labors  to  some  leisure  for  his 
own  spiritual  growth.     It  will  show  a  growing  knowledge 
on  our  part  that  democratic  education  is  of  all  forms  the 
most  costly,  and  a  generous  determination  on  the  part  of  the 
people  to  meet  the  cost  through  taxation.    And,  finally,  that 
chapter  of  history  will  also  record  a  growing  disposition  on 
the  part  of  the  people  of  Texas  to  provide  at  the  expense  of 
the  State  all  things  necessary  in  the  way  of  education- 
physical,  mental,  moral,  elementary,  secondary,  university, 
scientific,  literary,  artistic,  liberal,  technical,  or  professional 
—without  restriction  of  subject  or  kind  or  grade;  without 
limit  of  amount  or  cost;  without  distinction  of  class  or  race 
or  creed  or  sex  or  age.    This  means  money,  money,  money, 
and  men,  men,  men— the  men  to  assume  the  responsibilities, 
the  money  to  pay  the  bills  for  the  provision  of  all  these 
opportunities.  And  in  particular,  as  regards  the  high  schools 
on  which  this  and  other  universities  and  professional  schools 
must  lean,  is  not  the  thing  most  necessary  for  the  welfare  of 
university  education  in  Texas  to  secure  at  all  costs  good 
teachers  and  plenty  of  them  for  these  schools?     Indeed,  if 
the  strongest  and  finest  minds  are  to  be  prepared  for  the 
universities,  should  not  the  staff  of  the  public  high  school  be 
composed  of  men  and  women  of  very  extensive  culture  in 
several  branches   of  learning   and  intensive   specialization 
in  some  one  field:  a  few  members  of  erudition  in  scholar- 

[2073 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

ship,  a  few  of  productive  capacity  in  science,  a  great  number 
of  exceptional  teaching  ability?  The  prime  obligation  of 
this  corps  of  teachers  would  be  not  to  scholarship,  nor  to 
science,  nor  to  study,  nor  to  the  school  even,  but  to  the  stu- 
dents themselves:  and  to  them  not  merely  as  mechanisms 
that  can  be  taught  to  think,  but  to  their  whole  selves  as 
think-ing,  feel-ing,  will-ing  beings.  The  tutors,  not  task- 
masters but  fellow-workers;  the  students,  not  driven  by  dis- 
cipline, but  led  by  enthusiasm;  the  school,  not  an  interruption 
in  the  normal  life  of  the  student,  but  the  surest  means  to  its 
complete  realization.  In  a  word,  the  school  would  be  cen- 
tered on  the  students.  Their  studies  and  their  sports,  their 
work  and  their  play,  would  be  so  ordered  as  to  feed  and  fire 
their  enthusiasms,  to  stimulate  and  strengthen  intellect  in 
exact  thinking  and  imagination  in  clear  vision,  to  arouse  to 
action  their  latent  powers  of  mental  acquisitiveness,  to  de- 
velop initiative  and  again  initiative,  to  enable  them  to  dis- 
cover themselves  and  their  relations  to  the  great  arena  of 
service  and  opportunity,  to  train  them  for  the  duties  of 
intelligent  citizenship  in  the  republic  and  fit  them  also  to 
enjoy  and  perhaps  later  to  advance  the  larger  world  of  civili- 
zation in  letters,  science,  and  art. 

Another  source  of  unfailing  strength  to  the  new  university 
exists  ready  to  hand  in  the  presence  of  the  several  hundred 
college  men  and  women  now  resident  in  the  city  of  Houston. 
While  the  coming  of  the  new  institution  and  contact  with  its 
life  will  serve  to  warm  their  loyalty  to  their  own  respective 
colleges,  because  of  that  very  interest  and  devotion  they  will 
be  quick  to  interpret  sympathetically  the  aims  and  ideals  of 
the  Rice  Institute  to  the  people  of  its  community.  They  will 
thus  become  one  of  the  first  of  its  human  assets  and  one  of 
the  foremost  ui  its  living  sources  of  strength.  To  renew 
and  freshen  the  academic  interests  of  these  former  colle- 

[208;] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

gians,  to  stimulate  and  sustain  the  intellectual  life  of  the 
teachers  of  the  city's  schools,  to  tempt  business  and  profes- 
sional workers  to  at  least  occasional  excursions  into  the 
academic  atmosphere  surrounding  the  university,  to  keep  all 
the  members  of  the  Institute  in  a  lively  and  appreciative 
sense  of  familiarity  with  fields  of  learning  and  investigation 
other  than  their  own,  to  bring  all  the  people  of  the  city  and 
community  into  more  intimate  touch  with  the  academic  life 
of  the  university,  and  to  carry  the  influence  of  that  life 
directly  to  many  homes  not  represented  on  the  rolls  of  its 
undergraduate  or  postgraduate  students,  regular  series  of 
public  lectures,  in  the  form  of  university  extension  lectures, 
will  be  offered  without  matriculation  fee  or  other  form  of 
admission  requirement.  These  performances  are  to  be  au- 
thoritative in  character,  but  as  non-technical  and  popular  in 
treatment  as  their  subjects  will  permit.  From  domains  of 
literature,  history,  science,  art,  philosophy,  and  politics  sub- 
jects will  be  chosen  of  current  interest  as  well  as  those  of 
assured  and  permanent  value.^ 

These  various  sources  of  strength  and  support  which  I 
have  catalogued  can  hardly  be  measured  quantitatively  nor 
can  they  with  any  ease  be  arranged  in  series  of  greater  or 
less,  but  I  have  no  fear  of  exaggerating  when  I  say  that  no 

iThe  present  plan  for  university  extension  lectures  at  the  Institute  consists 
in  giving  each  academic  year  two  regular  series  of  thirty-six  lectures  each, 
the  first  series  running  through  three  divisions  of  twelve  lectures  each  on 
Mondays,  Wednesdays,  and  Fridays,  from  the  middle  of  November  to  the 
middle  of  February,  and  the  second  series  running  similarly  from  the  middle 
of  Februarv  to  the  middle  of  May.  All  these  lectures  are  delivered  m  the 
lecture  halfs  and  amphitheaters  of  the  Institute,  each  afternoon  lecture  begin- 
ning promptly  at  4:30  and  closing  not  later  than  5:30.  In  addition  to  the 
afternoon  lectures  occasional  Thursday  evening  lectures  are  being  given. 
The  plan  has  met  with  hearty  response  on  the  part  of  the  people  of  Houston, 
the  attendance  on  the  lectures  having  ranged  from  some  thirty  to  more  than 
five  hundred  auditors  at  a  single  lecture.  By  the  end  of  the  present  academic 
year  (1914-15)  an  aggregate  of  rather  more  than  twenty  courses  of  from 
three  to  twentv-four  lectures  each  will  have  been  delivered  by  Messrs.  Axson, 
Blayney,  Caldwell,  Dumble,  Evans,  Glascock,  Guerard,  Hitch,  Hughes, 
Reinke,  Tsanoff,  Van  Sicklen,  Watkin,  Weber,  and  Wilson. 

[209] 


I 


9 

ii 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

source  of  strength  to  the  new  university  will  be  more  perma- 
nent in  its  influence  than  that  of  the  aspirations  of  the  people 
themselves  for  their  children;  for,  from  the  captain  of  in- 
dustry on  down  to  the  most  modest  member  of  the  firm, 
whether  any  or  all  had  the  advantages  of  a  formal  education, 
all  are  determined  that  their  children  shall  have  such  advan- 
tages. And  in  this  determination  lies  the  basis  for  confident 
expectation  that  within  a  very  few  years  there  will  be  no 
family  of  five  members  in  the  city  of  Houston  that  will  not 
have  had  one  or  more  representatives  on  the  rolls  of  the  Insti- 
tute. Furthermore,  the  time  is  not  far  distant  when  our  citi- 
zens shall  be  coming  to  think  of  the  city's  university  when 
writing  their  wills,  and  soon  in  Houston,  as  in  Cambridge  and 
Chicago  and  San  Francisco,  a  man  will  leave  a  stain  on  his 
family  history  if  he  fail  to  remember  the  city's  university  in 
his  last  will  and  testament.^  Moreover,  the  endowing  of 
scholarships  and  fellowships,  the  founding  of  memorial 
lectureships  and  professorships,  the  erecting  and  endowing 

1  The  day  of  public  benefactions  by  Houston  philanthropists  has  dawned, 
though  still  in  its  earliest  morning.  The  late  Mr.  George  H.  Hermann,  who 
shortly  before  his  death  handed  Mayor  Campbell  a  deed  conveying  to  the 
city  a  tract  of  nearly  three  hundred  acres  of  land  lying  just  across  the  road 
from  the  Rice  Institute,  to  be  used  perpetually  for  the  purposes  of  a  public 
park,  has  by  his  will  given  also  to  the  city  a  site  for  a  Charity  Hospital, 
together  with  holdings  that  will  yield  an  estimated  endowment  of  three 
million  dollars  for  the  latter  institution.  With  engaging  frankness  Mr. 
Hermann  told  me  that  he  had  been  influenced  in  making  this  disposition  of 
his  property  by  the  example  of  William  Marsh  Rice  and  the  plans  of  the 
trustees  of  the  Institute.  Thus,  in  addition  to  a  university  for  all  the  people, 
this  city  of  homes  and  schools  and  churches  is  to  have  a  great  public  park 
and  a  great  public  hospital.  While  the  city's  list  of  public  institutions  pro- 
vided by  private  donation  has  been  steadily  growing,  the  city  has  not  been 
waiting  indifferently  until  such  provision  should  have  met  all  its  needs. 
As  a  matter  of  very  recent  history  the  city  itself  built  during  the  mayoralty 
of  Mr.  H.  Baldwin  Rice  a  magnificent  municipal  auditorium.  It  was  in  this 
auditorium  that  on  the  occasion  of  the  formal  opening  of  the  Rice  Institute 
there  assembled,  under  the  eloquent  dedicatory  sermon  of  the  Reverend  Dr. 
Charles  Frederic  Aked  and  an  inspiring  service  of  song  and  prayer  led  by 
the  Reverend  Dr.  Henry  van  Dyke,  an  audience  of  some  six  thousand  souls, 
including  the  clergymen  and  choirs  of  practically  all  the  churches  of  the 
city,  "solemnly  to  link  themselves  with  joy  and  deep  thanksgiving  to  the  con- 
secrating acts  by  which  the  new  university  was  publicly  dedicated  to  the 
high  purpose  set  forth  in  the  Founder's  will." 

[210;] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

of  name-bearing  buildings,  the  equipping  of  scientific  expe- 
ditions, the  maintaining  of  university  publications,  and  a 
score  of  other  ways  opened  up  by  the  growth  of  this  institu- 
tion, will  offer  both  to  young  and  to  old  many  avenues  for 
making  and  perpetuating  family  history. 

In  the  history  of  the  public  welfare  in  Texas  many  organ- 
ized movements,  local.  State,  and  national,  for  educating 
public  opinion,   for  elevating  public  morals,   for  inspiring 
public   taste,    for   improving   public   health,    have   by  their 
propaganda  been  assisting  in  preparing  the  way  for  a  new 
university  in  Texas.    Of  such  organizations  Houston  has  a 
long  and  active  list  whose  members  are  determined  that  their 
city  shall  be  great  and  good  and  beautiful:  an  art  league,  a 
Carnegie  library,  a  chamber  of  commerce,  a  Chautauqua 
circle,  lecture  and  lyceum  bureaus,   a  number  of  musical 
societies,  a  settlement  association,  a  social  service  federation, 
a  symphony  orchestra,  and  several  women's  literary  and  po- 
litical clubs  and  unions.     In  all  their  constructive  undertak- 
ings these  organizations  have  at  all  times  enjoyed  generous 
and  hearty  support  on  the  part  of  the  several  local  news- 
papers, which  are  maintaining  the  better  traditions  of  Amer- 
ican public  prints  in  instantaneous  seeking  and  supplying  of 
information,  in  eternal  vigilance  of  editorial  comment  and 
criticism,  in  wireless  response  to  the  social  feeling  and  sym- 
pathy of  the  community,  in  the  education  of  public  opinion 
and  the  reflection  of  the  public  mind.     With  all  these  local 
associations  the  university  would  seek  to  co-operate,  in  no 
way  would  it  compete  with  them,  in  all  possible  ways  it  would 
seek  to  avoid  all  unnecessary  duplication  of  their  work.   Fur- 
thermore, we  enter  also  into  the  results  of  years  of  labor 
for  the  common  welfare  which  the  people  of  Texas  have 
been  receiving  at  the  hands  of  many  voluntary  State  asso- 
ciations dedicated  to  the  public  service.     Among  the  latter 


i 


'i 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

there  stand  out  prominently  the  Conference  for  Education 
in  Texas,  the  State  Federation  of  Women's  Clubs  in  Texas, 
the  State  Teachers'  Association,  the  Texas  Welfare  Com- 
mission, and  the  various  patriotic  associations  for  perpetu- 
ating  relationships  with  the  American  Revolution,  the  Re- 
public of  Texas,  the  War  between  the  States,  and  other 
periods  of  State  and  national  history.    These  women— for 
the  majority  of  such  workers  in  Texas  are  women— have 
been  showing  enthusiasm,  originality,  statesmanship  in  their 
work;  they  have  also  been  showing  that  these  qualities  are 
not  the  only  ones  which  make  men  and  women  leaders  when 
a  new  country  is  to  be  settled  in  the  faith  and  fear  of  the 
Lord,  for  they  have  been  showing  that  there  is  also  potent 
and  efficient  force  in  gentleness,  quietness,  and  confidence. 
These  workers  make  their  appeal  to  the  university  from  the 
intellectual  quite  as  much  as  from  the  moral  side.    The  case 
for  their  propaganda  may  be  set  in  famous  words  of  Crom- 
well: ''What  liberty  and  prosperity  depend  upon  are  the 
souls  of  men  and  the  spirits— which  are  the  men.    The  mind 
is  the  man."     And  similarly,  in  a  good  passage  from  Mrs. 
Bosanquet's  book,  'The  Strength  of  a  People,''  which  I  should 
like  to  quote :  "In  all  considerations  of  social  work  and  social 
problems  there  is  one  main  thing  which  it  is  important  to 
remember— that  the  mind  is  the  man.    If  we  are  clear  about 
this  great  fact,  we  have  an  unfailing  test  to  apply  to  any 
scheme  of  social  reformation.     Does  it  appeal  to  men's 
minds?    Not  merely  to  their  momentary  needs  or  appetites, 
or  fancies,  but  to  the  higher  powers  of  affection,  thought,  and 
reasonable  action."    Ever  zealous  to  understand  the  aspira- 
tions of  the  popular  will,  ever  zealous  to  help  the  people 
in  their  quest  for  enlightenment,  ever  zealous  to  lead  the 
people  to  things  above  themselves,  this  university  would,  in 
the  spirit  of  a  passage  from  Spinoza,  take  its  "best  pains  not 

[212] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

to  laugh  at  the  actions  of  mankind,  not  to  groan  over  them, 
not  to  be  angry  with  them,  but  to  understand  them."    Test- 
ing any  programme  for  better  uses  of  life  and  leisure  by  a 
double  criterion :  Is  it  based  on  an  understanding  of  the  ways 
of  men  and  the  needs  of  humankind?  and  Does  it  appeal  to 
the  understandings  of  men?  the  university  would  seek,  while 
preserving  its  own  freedom  and  independence,  to  assist  in 
the  advancement  of  humanitarian  movements  in  State  or 
Nation  or  world.     This  humanitarian  aspect  of  university 
service,  as  differentiated  from  the  more  strictly  scholastic 
and  scientific  activities  of  university  life,  appearing  under 
newer  forms  comparatively  recently  in  the  so-called  univer- 
sity settlements  and  in  the  university  extension  movement, 
finds  its  latest  phase  in  co-operative  unions  for  world-wide 
programmes  of  scientific  investigation  on  the  one  hand,  and 
on  the  other,  in  the  organized  movements  for  improvement 
of  good  will  and  the  promotion  of  peace  among  the  nations. 
In  such  united  efforts  the  new  institution  would  participate, 
for  if  the  university,  though  on  private  foundation,  is  in  its 
first  days  what  Bryce  calls  a  municipal  university,  Haldane 
a  civic  university,  Dabney  an  urban  university,  in  its  future 
days  it  is  to  be  more  than  a  university  of  Houston— it  is  to 
be  a  university  of  Texas,  a  university  of  the  South,  and  later, 
let  us  hope,  in  reality  as  in  aspiration,  one  among  the  na- 
tional institutions,  reflecting  the  national  mind,  one  among 
the  universities  of  the  nations,  fostering  the  international 
mind  and  spirit  in  cosmopolitan  ways  such  as  the  mediaeval 
universities  enjoyed  before  the  death  of  universal  language 
and  the  divisions  in  a  universal  Church. 


[213:] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


IX 

THE  UNIVERSITY:  ITS  SPIRIT  AND  SUMMONS 

IN  thus  endeavoring  to  write  about  the  meaning  of  the  new 
institution  I  have  at  some  length  written  about  its  sources 
in  the  founder's  philanthropy  and  its  history  in  the  public 
spirit  of  his  friends;  of  its  site,  glorious  in  problems  bristling 
with  difficulties  and  joyous  in  possibilities  of  creative  effort; 
of  its  scope  in  entering  upon  a  university  programme  for  the 
advancement  of  letters,  science,  and  art,  by  investigation  and 
by  instruction,  in  the  individual  and  in  the  race  of  all  human 
kind;  of  its  saints  of  the  past  and  its  seers  of  the  present, 
pointing  by  exhortation  and  example  to  the  highroad  along 
which  progress  in  these  high  purposes  lies;  of  the  shades  and 
towers  in  which  are  to  be  undertaken  the  daring  adventures 
of  its  life  in  deeds  of  thought  and  action;  of  its  staff  of  pro- 
fessors, lecturers,  and  instructors,  in  whose  personality  and 
work  of  research  and  teaching  are  to  be  found  combined  the 
careers  of  citizen,  scientist,  scholar,  and  schoolmaster;  of  its 
students,  through  whose  studies  and  standards  in  scholarship 
and  sport  constant  contributions  are  to  be  made  to  the  char- 
acter, culture,  and  citizenship  of  the  Republic;  of  its  strength 
in  its  freedom  from  political  and  ecclesiastical  affiliations,  in 
its  faith  in  the  progress  of  the  human  spirit,  in  its  faculties 
of  science,  humanity,  and  technology,  in  its  self-governed  stu- 
dent democracy,  in  a  definite  educational  policy,   and  the 
driving  power  of  ideas  and  ideals  backed  by  material  re- 
sources for  their  realization;  of  its  support  in  the  schools  of 
the  city,  the  county,  and  the  commonwealth,  in  the  college 
men  and  women  of  the  community,  in  the  captains  of  indus- 

[214] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

try  and  commerce,  in  all  organized  conferences  for  educa- 
tion, welfare,  and  uplift,  in  the  resolute  determination  of  the 
people  who  have  been  winning  the  West,  now  to  win  the  best 
for  the  sons  and  daughters  of  the  West.  My  further  and 
final  object  is  an  attempted  portrayal  of  the  spirit  which 
presides  over  the  university;  a  presentation,  more  or  less 
rough,  of  that  breath  and  finer  form  of  the  spirit  of  learning 
which  lends  what  is  perhaps  its  chief  glory  to  the  life  of 
reflection  and  gives  what  may  be  perhaps  its  final  purpose 

to  the  life  of  action.^ 

Twenty  years  ago  it  was  specialization.     Ten  years  ago 
it    was    specialization.      To-day    it    is    specialization    still, 
whether  in  academic  education  or  in  professional  training, 
but  specialization  on  the  broadest  kind  of  general  founda- 
tion.   Preparatory  to  attacking  the  practical  problems  of  the 
material  world,  men  are  coming  to  provide  themselves  with 
the  most  complete  theoretical  training  yet  devised  in  the 
world  of  mind.    On  the  other  hand,  pure  scientists  are  con- 
tinually on  the  outlook  for  applications  of  their  discoveries 
either  to  the  ideal  world  in  which  they  live  or  to  the  real 
world  in  which  they  find  their  livelihood.     As  a  result  the 
professor's  desk  is  nearer  the  market-place,  closer  to  the 
counting-house,  within  easier  call  of  State  and  Church  than 
ever  before.    The  university  is  saying  to  its  men  of  letters, 
'Tou  must  be  leaders  of  men'';  to  its  men  of  science,  *'You 
must  be  also  men  of  affairs."    The  world  in  its  turn  is  de- 
manding that  its  engineers  be  cultivated  men,  and  that  its 
skilled  artisans  be  skilled  in  the  liberal  arts  as  well. 

Where  theory  and  practice  thus  meet  there  must  be  rea- 

iTo  bring  within  the  time  limits  of  the  programme  the  reading  of  an 
address  obviously  too  long  to  be  read  in  its  complete  form  in  public  on  any 
occasion,  onlv  four  sections  of  this  address  were  actually  delivered  as  a  part 
of  the  formal  exercises  of  the  inauguration  and  dedication  of  the  Rice  Insti- 
tute, and  under  the  caption,  "The  Meaning  of  the  New  Unwersity:  Its  Source, 
Its  Site,  Its  Scope,  Its  Spirit." 


i. 


■"i-aiip.im.a!i  ^tt,.Lji.xw  jiaKP^'^i"'* 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

son,  and  this  reason  is  restoring  to  learning  its  unity,  in 
whose  spirit  we  read  the  strength  and  the  vision  of  the  uni- 
versity. This  spirit  appears  to  us  under  three  aspects  in 
those  disciplines  by  which  men  seek  for  truth  and  strive  after 
beauty  in  letters,  in  science,  in  art.  Art  was  originally  the 
handmaid  of  religion;  science,  at  one  time  the  servant  of 
philosophy,  has  more  lately  become  its  master;  letters,  in 
the  beginning  the  playfellow  of  poets  and  story-tellers,  has 
grown  to  be  humanity's  recording  angel.  Science  has  its 
source  in  a  sense  of  wonder,  art  in  a  sensitiveness  to  measure 
and  proportion,  while  literature  partakes  of  the  substance 
of  science  and  the  form  of  art.  Science  consecrated  to  the 
conquest  of  truth  would  solve  the  universe;  art  would  re- 
create it  in  the  conservation  of  taste.  Science  progresses  by 
inquiry,  art  under  inspiration.  Intuition  dominates  the  artis- 
tic reason,  while  inference  controls  the  scientific. 

In  other  words,  by  the  spirit  of  liberal  and  technical  learn- 
ing I  understand  that  immortal  spirit  of  inquiry  or  inspira- 
tion which  has  been  clearing  the  pathway  of  mankind  to  in- 
tellectual and  spiritual  liberty,  to  the  recognition  of  law  and 
charm  in  nature,  to  the  fearless  pursuit  of  truth  and  the 
ceaseless  worship  of  beauty.  Its  history  is  the  history  of  the 
progress  of  the  human  spirit.  Led  by  an  instinct  for  know- 
ledge, an  instinct  for  harmony,  an  instinct  for  law,  that  spirit 
has  brought  the  twentieth  century  its  most  precious  posses- 
sions: the  love  of  reason,  the  love  of  art,  the  love  of  free- 
dom. 

There  abide  these  three:  the  spirit  of  science,  the  spirit  of 
letters,  the  spirit  of  art,  but  the  man  has  not  arisen  to  say  to 
us  which  is  the  greatest  of  the  three.  These  are  the  faces 
of  the  spirit  of  learning,  above  which  there  hovers  a  halo 
called  by  the  m.odern  philosopher  the  spirit  of  service,  and  by 
the  ancient  seer  the  spirit  of  wisdom.     Knowledge  becomes 

1:216] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

power  only  when  it  is  vitalized  by  reason;  it  becomes  learn- 
ing only  when  it  lives  in  the  personality  of  a  man;  it  becomes 
wisdom  on  translation  into  human  conduct.  I  know  as  well 
as  you  that  the  spirits  of  which  I  speak  are  ghosts  who  will 
themselves  not  speak  until  they  have  drunk  blood.  We  pro- 
pose to  give  them  the  blood  of  our  hearts  in  the  service  of 
the  new  institution.^ 

Ladies  and  Gentlemen  of  Houston:  At  your  gates  there 
have  arisen  for  all  time  the  walls  and  towers  and  men  of  the 
Rice  Institute,  whose  life  is  to  be  an  integral  part  of  your 
life,  whose  service  is  to  be  local  in  the  best  sense,  whose  sig- 
nificance, let  us  hope,  may  be  State-wide,  and  even  national, 
in  its  reach,  on  a  foundation  builded  for  Houston,  for  Texas, 
the  South,  and  the  Nation.    A  long  avenue  doubly  lined  with 
trees,  at  one  end  the  captains  of  industry  and  commerce  in 
factory  and  counting-house,  at  the  other  a  college  community 
in  academic  shades  dedicated  to  liberal  and  technical  learn- 
ing, the  happy  homes  of  Houston  lying  in  between!    A  uni- 
versity devoted  to  the  advancement  of  literature,  science, 
and  art;  to  the  promotion  of  letters  as  the  record  of  the 
achievements  of  the  human  spirit;  to  the  promotion  of  sci- 
ence as  the  revealer  of  the  laws  and  the  conqueror  of  the 
forces  of  nature;  to  the  promotion  of  art  as  the  sunshine  and 
gilding  of  life.     A  society  of  scholars  in  whose  company 
your  children,  and  your  children's  children  and  their  chil- 
dren, may  spend  formative  years  of  their  aspiring  youth 
under  the  cultivating  influences  of  humane  letters  and  pure 
science,  pursuing  culture  with  forward-looking  minds  and 
far-seeing  spirit  before  undertaking  in  the  Institute's  pro- 
fessional schools  special  or  technical  training  for  the  more 
sober  business  of  life.     A  temple  of  wisdom  and  sanctuary 

1  It  is  to  Professor  von  Wilamowitz-Moellendorif,  I  believe,  that  I  owe 
this  figure  of  speech. 

1:217:] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

of  learning  within  whose  courts  and  cloisters  you  yourselves 
may  find  an  occasional  retreat  in  which  to  think  more  quietly 
and  more  deeply;  perhaps  to  worship  more  devoutly  and 
more  intelligently;  certainly  to  contemplate  the  deeper  things 
of  patriotism  and  politics,  of  reverence  and  religion,  of  peace 
and  progress;  and  mayhap  to  discover,  if  never  before,  that 
you  may  belong  to  the  great  community  through  which  the 
Eternal  has  worked  for  ages,  that  you  may  have  a  share  in 
the  high  privileges  and  solemn  duties  which  belong  to  every 
member  of  that  great  community,  that  in  the  continuity  of 
human  history  you  may  march  forward,  if  you  will,  in  a 
great  pageant  that  moves  from  the  living  past  through  the 
living  present  into  the  living  future. 

Not  long  ago  I  stood  on  a  great  rock— a  great  living  rock 
—within  eyeshot  of  the  birthplace  of  modern  civilization. 
Upon  it  rose  those  incomparable  ruins,  mighty  as  the  mind 
that  conceived  them,  majestic  as  the  mountains  and  sea  that 
call  to  them.  In  their  midst  the  gods  of  the  Greeks  still  live. 
And  of  all  those  gods  it  was  to  her  who  typifies  science  that 
the  Parthenon  was  dedicated;  to  that  great  goddess  who 
sprang  full-armed  from  the  head  of  Zeus  at  the  touch  of  fire 
and  toil,  to  conquer  the  deep  himself.^  It  is  no  long  flight 
of  fancy  from  the  Parthenon  above  the  fields  of  Hellas  to 
these  towers  that  rise  on  the  plains  of  Texas.  Under  her 
ancient  promise,  may  Pallas  Athena  preside  over  these  aca- 
demic groves  and  guide  men  by  the  spirit  of  science  and  the 
spirit  of  art  and  the  spirit  of  service  in  their  search  for  the 
great,  and  the  lovely,  and  the  new,  for  solutions  of  the  uni- 
verse in  terms  of  the  good,  the  beautiful,  and  the  true ! 

And  I  recalled  the  words  of  the  wise  man  of  another 
chosen  people: 

1  The  Idea  and  experience  of  the  first  part  of  this  paragraph  I  am  obliged 
to  share  with  Professor  Sir  Ronald  Ross,  but  I  am  unable  to  supply  the 
appropriate  citation. 


r 


t; 


dltc 

(rru^l'te&  antr  3hicultu 

0fthc 

ICamcgic  3n^titutc 

' —  i»rtirnlr  fraternal  grirtHngiEr  anir  rongrahxlaHansi 

ujTon  the  oeeasian  of  i\p  f0rmnl  trelticatiau  to  the  cause 
of  technical  education. 

On  their  behalf,  3  tnieh  to  emfrha^icC  our  belief 
in  uour  outlook  for  Iti^tinijuiehclr  ^eroicc  in  tttc^ 
southern  states,  anlr  to  tentrer  \tou  our  co-on^ration 
ani»  hforticfrt  roifrhes  for  n  long  unlr  honorcTr  career 
of  useful ne^s. 

li^fUililai'^ditf  Jyf^  Oirrctor 

l}itt6burgh.]Jcrin&\Tlimnia. 

(i)c^flbcr  fifth  3Tinfhrcn'^»>iunUrclr  unit  drociiTf. 


BCW3K  ^  >t:   t^! 

•'Except  the  LorH  rioth  h 
■a  build  it.** 
'  f  prayed,  ant!  liiukr 
V  ui,  and  the  spi* 
.  above  sceptres  and  t? 

e  that  never  faileiii. 
"For  wisdom  is  a  brearlj 
-  hience  flowing  fmm  the 

ection  of  the  evcriasiiiig  4ii.;ui 
c  power  of  God  and  the 
:  ages,  entering  into  holy  a- 
'  God,  and  prophets/* 

isdom  hath  huilded  her  I 
ihe  hath  hewn  out  her  seven 
She  hath  mingled  her  Ti^;:.  ; 
^^fie  hath  also  furn'^hed  h-^  i.. 
she  hath  sent  forth  /.. 
Vpon  the  highest  ■ 

''Whoso  is  s'nnpJr.  let  him  t-'trt- 
A s  for  hi ni  i  hai  i :  c  o .  :  ■ '  -^ * 

'*Come,  eat  ye  of  my  tm 
And  drink  of  the  f  ' 
And  walk  in  the  way  of  • 


'FN 


ningled, 


''Blessed  is  the  man  that  heareih 
JVatckuig  daily  at  my  gu*^" 
Waiting  at  the  posts  of  my  doo 
For  whoso  findeth  wa-  Undrth  hh' 
And  shall  obtain  favor  of  the  I.ord.    ' 

Edgar  Ooell  T 

1  These  several  passages,  from  tisc  nook  n  s'i<.i\^iv>2 
dom,  in  sHghtlv  abbrevir^ud  farm  have  been  distributed 
caps  of  the  columns  which  supr-'r^  th-   ir-he?  in  the  c 
Winj:  of  the  first  Residential  ]> 


«r  JL»  «■*  ■*  iiftw.'ife'i. 


\ 


I 


i  4' 


mi!  latuf 


'  Jt  9r%        .mm     4  ^  .^  % 
,,*  i-«i. .,.«»  .-*  f  ,,.  V  ,'^-  <»♦ 


v«^ 


h?  Hti 


Builnititifule 


ufTau  thi  oiaimtm  af  ite  lirrmai  1*  i^n  to  the  muifc 

0f  J'cthnifai  ctntiTii?n, 


On  r 
in  uour  i 

01   I 


^ou  aur  co-0|Ttml:iffu 
air  hau0Tc7?r  carctr 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

^'Except  the  Lord  doth  build  the  house,  they  labor  in  vain 

that  build  it." 

''I  prayed,  and  understanding  was  given  me;  I  called  upon 
God,  and  the  spirit  of  wisdom  came  unto  me;  I  preferred 
her  above  sceptres  and  thrones,  for  she  is  unto  men  a  trea- 
sure that  never  faileth." 

*Tor  wisdom  is  a  breath  of  the  power  of  God,  and  a  pure 
effluence  flowing  from  the  glory  of  the  Almighty.  She  is  the 
reflection  of  the  everlasting  light,  the  unspotted  mirror  of 
the  power  of  God  and  the  image  of  his  goodness.  And  in 
all  ages,  entering  into  holy  souls,  she  maketh  them  friends 
of  God,  and  prophets.'' 

Wisdom  hath  huilded  her  house, 

She  hath  hewn  out  her  seven  pillars; 

She  hath  mingled  her  wine; 

She  hath  also  furnished  her  table. 

She  hath  sent  forth  her  maidens;  she  crieth 

Upon  the  highest  places  of  the  city, 

'Whoso  is  simple,  let  him  turn  in  hither'' ; 

As  for  him  that  is  void  of  understanding,  she  saith  to  him, 

''Come,  eat  ye  of  my  bread. 

And  drink  of  the  wine  which  I  have  mingled. 

And  walk  in  the  way  of  understanding, 

''Blessed  is  the  man  that  heareth  me, 

Watching  daily  at  my  gates. 

Waiting  at  the  posts  of  my  doors; 

For  whoso  findeth  me  findeth  life. 

And  shall  obtain  favor  of  the  Lord.''  ^ 

Edgar  Odell  Lovett. 

1  These  several  passages,  from  the  Book  of  Proverbs  and  the  Book  of  Wis- 
dom, in  slightlv  abbreviated  form  have  been  distributed  m  the  carving  on  the 
caps  of  the  columns  which  support  the  arches  in  the  cloisters  of  the  North 
W^ing  of  the  first  Residential  Hall  for  men. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


'.>, 


■  1 


The  One  Hundredth  Psalm 


i 


^ 


/^ 


iS 


-<5 


^ 


— « 


-« 


-6 


-6 


d 


1.  All 

2.  Know 


peo  -  pie     that       on 
that      the      Lord      is 


earth     do       dwell,        Sing 
God       in  -    deed;        With  - 


^^ 


&. 


V 


T 


fe 


5^ 


5? 


g 


i 


3 


i 


^'^  j   j  il  jj  r~?    ?^ 


/^ 


f 


a 


^^ 


to      the   Lord  with       cheer-ful   voice:      Him       serve  with  mirth,  His 
out     our    aid      He  did      us    make:      We         are     His    flock,   He 


^ 


praise_  forth-teU,     Come       ye      be  -  fore     Him_        and       re    -    joice. 
doth—   us      feed,     And        for      His  sheep   He_        doth       us         take. 


E 


I 


9- 


6h 


& 


i 


9- 


f 


^ 


\J 


o 


3.  0  enter  then  His   gates  with  praise, 

Approach  with  joy  His  courts  unto: 
Praise,  laud  and  bless  His  name  always, 
For  it  is  seemly  so  to  do. 

4.  For  why?  the  Lord  our  God  is  good, 

His  mercy  is  forever  sur»; 
His  truth  at  all  times  firmly  stood. 
And  shall  from  age  to  age  endure. 

[220] 


^  I 


BENEDICTION 

Rev.  Charles  Frederic  Aked:  Thou  who  art  the  Giver 
of  every  good  and  perfect  gift,  who  dost  inspire  every  lofty 
thought,  from  whom  all  skill  and  science  flow.  Thou  who 
hast  been  our  help  in  ages  past,  who  art  our  hope  for  years 
to  come,  crown,  we  beseech  Thee,  the  labors  of  Thy  ser- 
vants with  Thy  richest  blessing.  May  the  love  of  the  Eter- 
nal Father,  the  grace  of  the  Lord  Jesus,  the  fellowship  of 
the  Holy  Spirit,  abide  with  us  and  with  our  loved  ones  and 
with  all  good  men  and  women  everywhere  forevermore! 
iVmen. 


[221] 


LUNCHEON  AT  THE  INSTITUTE  COMMONS 
-CONGRATULATORY  GREETINGS 

President  Lovett:  Ladies  and  Gentlemen— Tht  trus- 
tees of  the  Rice  Institute  honored  themselves  and  the  new 
university  by  addressing  to  the  universities  and  learned  so- 
cieties of  the  world  invitations  to  participate  in  this  our  first 
academic  festival.  Many  of  these  institutions  are  repre- 
sented here  to-day  in  the  person  of  their  president,  profes- 
sors, or  distinguished  alumni.  Hundreds  of  others  have 
sent  us  cordial  addresses  of  congratulation,  and  in  addition 
to  these  formal  messages  many  telegrams  and  cablegrams 
have  been  received  this  morning.  In  number  and  signifi- 
cance these  responses  have  far  exceeded  our  best  expecta- 
tions of  courtesy  and  good  will.  To  receive  all  these 
communications  with  proper  ceremonies  it  would  be  literally 
necessary  for  this  academic  assembly  to  sit  for  at  least  an- 
other three  days.  In  the  midst  of  such  an  embarrassment  of 
riches  we  have  been  obliged  to  restrict  this  part  of  our 
program  to  a  few  responses  from  representatives  of  the  rep- 
resentatives. Accordingly,  we  have  asked  one  of  our  distin- 
guished guests  from  abroad  to  speak  for  the  foreign  and 
American  learned  societies  that  have  sent  us  greetings  on  this 
occasion,  and  another  eminent  guest  from  Europe  to  speak 
for  the  foreign  universities,  and  for  the  universities  of  Amer- 
ica we  shall  call  upon  a  delegate  from  one  of  the  oldest  en- 
dowed institutions  of  the  East,  the  representative  of  one  of 
the  earliest  State  universities  in  the  South,  the  president  of 
one  of  the  newer  endowed  universities  of  the  North,  and  the 
president  of  one  of  the  younger  State  universities  of  the 
West. 

[222] 


To  The   Pr^^i^^nr    ':\ni\     ! 


01 


T  H  ] 


ill 


HE    t>F 


Til"    BRn  .-'l 


Send  Cortii. 


of  the  nex   U 


good  w>' 


h-  - 


III    '"lie   g 


jininniiinii" 


..  ^.  .A  -  ^ 


!(l 


X 


Mi 


—CO 


r\w  []v*=;titi^tf:  commons 


Th^ 


tee 

un; 


seir 


f^men— The  trus- 
and  the  new 
.  a  ad  learned  so- 
this  our  first 
.jas  arc   rep  re- 
nt, profes- 
hers  have 

« 

.nd  in  addition 
•  ablegrams 

vc  b         recci  tins  nioi  ^nd  signifi- 

ri*  >^?:e  "^^vf  f'^r  rxcff*c]f^(^,  niir  h<*sf  expecta- 

tions ot   ci^'uftesy   ana   good   Wiil.  vCivc   all   these 

commonlcntions  with  Droper  ceremonies  it  would  be  literally 
necessary  tor  tti  adeniic  assembly  to  si"  ^  r  at  least  an- 
other thf'  In  the  m  )f  such  an  embarrassment  of 
riches  we  1          *    "-  "^-ligedto  r*-^*-*  t  'his  pare  of  our 

few  ^e^  >  from  representatives  of  the  rep- 

.  ...Iced  one  of  our  dlstin- 

)reign  and 

us  ereetin^s  on  this 

urope  to  speak 

diversities  of  Amer- 

t  lUL,  coldest  en- 

ntative  of  one  of 

,.     he  president  of 

■  e  North,  and  the 

tate  universities  of  the 


pre 


K 


ncT 


». 


an  ]{ 


■-  ..  asiu- 
tor  the  ' 

do-  •  ' 

the  e..  ... 
one  of  the  r 
president  o 

West. 


To  The   President  and  Trustees 


OF 


THE    RICE    INSTITUTE 

of  Liberal  and   Technical    Learning 

THE    PRESIDENT,    COINCIL    AND    GENERAL    BODY    OF 

FELLOW'S  OF 

THE   BRITISH    ACADEMY 

SenJ  Corduil  Greetings  o>i   the  occasion  of  the  formal  Opening 

of  the  nezL-    University 


^fm\)t  Brtnsl)  TitmXXW  in  the  spirit  of  true  fellowship  desires  to  part.cpate  m  the 
^  inaugxiral  Celebration,  and  to  joi,.  with  tho^e  assemWed  from  far  aad  near  m  heart.r.t 
good  wi.hes  for  the  suecessful  carrying  out  of  the  exalted  .deals  which  prompted  their  large- 
hearted  citizen,  Wn.UAM  Marsh  R.ck,  to  endow  and  to  dedicate  to  the  Advancement  ot 
Letters,  Science  and  Art,  the  nobly  equipped  University  Institute-a  fitting  Memonal  ior 
generations  to  come  of  public-spirited  munificence. 

The  Council  of  the  British  Academy  regret  that,  owing  to  the  time  of  the.  year,  a 
representative  of  their  Body  is  not  able  to  naend  the  Celebration;  but  the  Academys 
Congratulations  un  the  present  great  .>ccasion  are  none  the  less  sincere. 

May- the  R.ce  iNST.rcTE  reaU/.e  the  highest  hopes  of  us  Founder  and  of  all  associated 
in  the  good  work  now  to  be  inaugurated  by  the  formal  Opening  of  the  new  University! 


Sigfied, 


^^,lCX<^a'Z.. 


'i^ 


The  BarnsH  AcArewv, 

BlRLlNGION     HcfSF,     LoSnCN, 


PnsiJcn'  'if' il^'  British  .it;iJ,n:-. 
Kcrt-lary  of  the  Britiih  .L-iSiJ- 


%t**<ir<'  ■ 


••.  *>;i4.,  "-,*,  I 


r' 


r 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

On  the  part  of  foreign  and  American  learned  societies, 
Professor    Sir   William    Ramsay,    of    the    University    of 

London. 

For  the  foreign  universities.  Professor  Emile  Borel,  of 

the  University  of  Paris. 

On  behalf  of  the  American  institutions  of  the  East,  Dean 
William  Francis  Magie,  of  Princeton  University. 

For  the  universities  of  the  South,  Professor  William 
Holding  Echols,  of  the  University  of  Virginia. 

On  behalf  of  the  universities  of  the  North,  President 
Harry  Pratt  Judson,  of  the  University  of  Chicago. 

For  the  American  universities  of  the  West,  President 
Sidney  Edward  Mezes,  of  the  University  of  Texas. 

I  have  great  pleasure  in  calling  on  these  gentlemen,  who 
have  very  kindly  consented  to  address  you,  according  to  the 
above  program. 

Professor  Sir  William  Ramsay:  Mr.  President,  Ladies 
and  Gentlemen-\Ye  have  witnessed  within  the  last  couple 
of  days  a  birth,  and  there  is  one  class  of  persons  in  this  world 
which  represents  and  is  attendant  upon  births  all  over  the 
world.  This  person  is  what  is  called  in  French  the  "sage- 
femme."  She  is  represented  here  by  the  wise  men  who  have 
joined  in  conveying  congratulations  to  this  University  on 

the  occasion  of  its  birth. 

Personally  I  am  the  conveyor  of  congratulations  from  the 
University  of  London,  from  University  College,  London, 
and  from  the  American  Philosophical  Society,  and  In  the 
name  of  these  three  institutions  I  am  here  to  wish  a  very 
long  life  and  great  prosperity  to  this  newly  born  child. 

I  have  in  my  hand  a  number  of  cablegrams  from  learned 
societies  In  every  part  of  the  world.  From  Kief,  Moscow, 
and  St.  Petersburg  In  Russia,  from  Berlin  and  Gottlngen  in 


1 


w 


■  1 

I 

i 


V     I 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

On  the  part  of  foreign  and  American  learned  societies, 
Professor    Sir   William    Ramsay,    of    the    University    of 

London. 

For  the  foreign  universities.  Professor  Emile  Borel,  ot 

the  University  of  Paris. 

On  behalf  of  the  American  institutions  of  the  East,  Dean 
William  Francis  Magic,  of  Princeton  University. 

For  the  universities  of  the  South,  Professor  William 
Holding  Echols,  of  the  University  of  Virginia. 

On  behalf  of  the  universities  of  the  North,  President 
Harry  Pratt  Judson,  of  the  University  of  Chicago. 

For  the  American  universities  of  the  West,  President 
Sidney  Edward  Mezes,  of  the  University  of  Texas. 

I  have  great  pleasure  in  calling  on  these  gentlemen,  who 
have  very  kindly  consented  to  address  you,  according  to  the 
above  program. 

Professor  Sir  William  Ramsay:  Mr.  President,  Ladies 
and  Gentlemen-\Ye  have  witnessed  within  the  last  couple 
of  days  a  birth,  and  there  is  one  class  of  persons  in  this  world 
which  represents  and  is  attendant  upon  births  all  over  the 
world.  This  person  is  what  is  called  in  French  the  "sage- 
femme."  She  is  represented  here  by  the  wise  men  who  have 
joined  in  conveying  congratulations  to  this  University  on 
the  occasion  of  its  birth. 

Personally  I  am  the  conveyor  of  congratulations  from  the 
University  of  London,  from  University  College,  London, 
and  from  the  American  Philosophical  Society,  and  in  the 
name  of  these  three  institutions  I  am  here  to  wish  a  very 
long  life  and  great  prosperity  to  this  newly  born  child. 

I  have  in  my  hand  a  number  of  cablegrams  from  learned 
societies  in  every  part  of  the  world.  From  Kief,  Moscow, 
and  St.  Petersburg  in  Russia,  from  Berlin  and  Gottingen  m 

[223] 


X 


f 


:l 
W 

If 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Germany,  from  Bucharest  in  Rumania,  from  Copenhagen 
in  Denmark,  from  Christiania  in  Norway,  from  Stockholm 
in  Sweden,  from  Lemberg  in  Poland,  from  Rome  in  Italy, 
and  from  many  other  points  of  the  compass  congratulatory 
telegraphic  messages  have  been  sent.  Besides  these  tele- 
graphic good  wishes  which  have  been  received  this  morning, 
there  have  been  received  from  practically  every  literary  and 
scientific  center  of  the  world  formal  addresses  of  felicitation 

and  good  will. 

And  so  I  am  here  to  say  that  the  fame  of  this  institution 
has  been  spread  broadcast  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the 
world,  and  I  am  here  to  convey  in  their  names— the  names 
of  the  institutions  and  colleges  which  I  have  mentioned— to 
this  newly  born  institution,  their  most  hearty  congratula- 
tions and  their  wishes  for  a  long  and  successful  life. 

Professor  Emile  Borel:  Mr.  President,  Ladies  and 
Gentlemen  — I  have  been  commissioned  to  bring  to  the  inau- 
guration of  your  great  and  beautiful  Institute  the  best  wishes 
of  the  University  of  Paris  and  those  of  the  Ecole  Polytech- 
nique.  Besides  the  official  messages  of  my  mission,  I  desire 
to  express  to  you  also  my  warm  personal  appreciation  of 
your  cordial  hospitality,  which  we  can  never  forget,  and  also 
my  great  admiration  for  the  university  which  you  are  found- 
ing. On  my  return  to  France  I  shall  often  recall  the  beautiful 
architecture  of  your  Administration  Building  and  the  harmo- 
nious aspect  of  this  large  hall,  with  its  decorations  of  flags. 
I  am  deeply  touched  to  find,  at  so  great  a  distance  from  our 
ancient  Europe,  a  desire  for  work  and  for  service  animating 
your  students  altogether  similar  to  the  desire  which  animates 
ours  in  our  faculties,  in  our  schools.  I  am  conscious  here  of 
the  fraternity  which  unites  men,  in  spite  of  the  seas,  in  the 
same   objects   of   research,    of   development,    of   progress. 

[2243 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Your  organization,  so  eminently  practical,  your  plans  of 
work,  so  thoroughly  studied,  give  promise  of  brilliant  re- 
sults. You  have  chosen  some  eminent  professors.  It  is  with 
complete  confidence  in  the  future  that  in  the  name  of  the 
University  of  Paris,  in  the  name  of  the  Ecole  Polytechnique, 
and  in  my  own  name,  I  drink  to  your  future  success. 

Dean  William  F.  Magie  :  Mr,  President ,  Ladies  and 
Gentlemen— It  is  with  feelings  of  pride  and  pleasure  that  I 
appear  before  you  to-day  as  the  representative  of  the  East- 
ern  Universities  of  the  United  States.  In  their  name  I  bring 
to  President  Lovett  and  to  the  trustees  of  the  Rice  Institute 
the  cordial  congratulations  of  these  Institutions.  They  all 
join  In  welcoming  to  the  number  of  the  educational  influ* 
ences  by  which  science  and  art  are  to  be  advanced  In  our 
country,  an  Institution  which  takes  Its  place  among  them  with 
such  flattering  prospects  of  a  great  future. 

Particularly,  however,  I  appear  to  speak  for  Princeton 
University,  In  which  President  Lovett  was  for  many  years 
one  of  our  most  honored  and  best  beloved  colleagues.  I 
shall  not  read  the  formal  address  with  which  I  was  fur- 
nished by  the  authorities  of  Princeton  University,  but  I  shall 
give  expression  In  a  more  Informal  way  to  that  which  I 
believe  no  other  Institution  can  bring  In  so  full  a  measure, 
the  cordial  and  personal  good  wishes  and  congratulations  of 
your  president's  Intimate  friends.  We  all  remember  him 
with  affection.  We  all  felt  the  deepest  regrets  when  he  left 
us,  and  we  now  can  only  express  to  him  our  sincere  good 
wishes  for  the  greatest  possible  success  In  his  new  and  dis- 
tinguished position. 

Our  president,  who  signed  the  formal  letter  of  congratula- 
tion, of  course  also  sent  his  warmest  personal  congratula- 
tions.   I  shall  not  attempt  to  enumerate  at  this  time  those  of 

1:225] 


MMh 


.  -ll  ...^2.^  ■:hl..A:MikAimM.''ijUil-^ 


r 


i 


h. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

President  Lovett's  Princeton  friends  who  wished  to  be  per- 
sonally and  by  name  joined  with  our  president  in  these  con- 
gratulations, but  I  am  sure  that  you  will  be  pleased  to  hear 
that  I  bring  to  President  Lovett  and  to  the  Rice  Institute  the 
congratulations  of  a  woman  who  is  known  and  honored 
throughout  the  land— Mrs.  Grover  Cleveland. 

I  would  like  to  say  just  a  word  or  two  besides  these  words 
of  congratulation,  and  explain  why  I  wish  to  congratulate 
so  particularly  your  president  and  your  institution. 

I  will  first  say  a  word  on  the  subject  which  has  just  been 
referred  to  in  the  eloquent  address  of  the  representative  of 
the  University  of  Paris,  when  he  spoke  about  the  beautiful 
architecture  of  the  buildings  which  are  going  up  on  this  great 
campus.     I  feel  that  on  this  occasion  it  would  not  be  right 
if  we  did  not  give  full  and  hearty  recognition— and  I  am 
glad  to  say  that  this  has  already  been  done  in  better  words 
than  I  could  possibly  use— to  the  wonderful  artistic  success 
which  has  been  attained  already,  and  which  you  can,  I  think, 
expect  to  be  attained  in  the  future  development  of  the  insti- 
tution under  the  guidance  of  your  supervising  architect,  Mr. 
Cram.    I  had  the  peculiar  pleasure  of  going  about  with  him 
while  he  inspected  the  buildings.     He  saw  them  in  their 
completed  form  for  the  first  time,  and  I  never  appreciated 
so  well  as  I  now  do,  after  seeing  his  delight  in  his  own 
achievements,  what  is  meant  by  the  words,  "And  God  saw 
everything  that  He   had  made,   and  behold,   it  was  very 
good.''     I  congratulate  you  most  heartily  on  having  Mr. 
Cram  as  the  supervising  architect  of  this  Institute. 

Then  again,  in  line  with  what  was  presented  in  the  speech 
of  the  Bishop  of  Tennessee  and  in  the  address  of  your  presi- 
dent, I  congratulate  you  upon  the  declared  devotion  of  this 
Institute  to  science,  literature,  and  art,  in  their  pure  form, 
as  preliminary  to  the  development  of  the  technical  sciences 

[226] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

and  arts  which  contribute  so  much  to  the  comfort  and  plea- 
sure of  the  world.  I  do  not  feel  that,  after  what  was  said  this 
morning,  I  need  repeat  the  reasons  why  pure  science  is  par- 
ticularly important  in  an  institution  which  is  to  be  devoted 
partly  to  the  solution  of  technical  problems.    All  the  great 
inventions  grew  out  of  scientific  discoveries.     I  could  give 
you  example  after  example,  and  every  other  scientific  man 
here  could  do  the  same,  but  I  cannot  stop  for  it.    The  pure 
sciences  furnish  the  ideas  which  are  developed  in  practice. 
They  give  the  student  the  necessary  theoretical  foundation 
for  his  practice  and  make  it  possible  for  him  to  be  more  than 
a  mere  drudge  in  the  technical  applications  of  the  sciences. 
Chesterton  says,  somewhere,  that  if  a  machine  stops  because 
a  nut  comes  off,  or  a  tire  is  punctured,  an  ordinary  mechanic 
can  put  it  in  order;  but  if  some  real  trouble  happens  and  the 
machine  really  breaks  down,  it  is  far  more  likely  that  it  will 
be  put  in  order  again,  not  by  a  mechanic,  but  by  some  white- 
haired  professor  who  seems  to  have  very  little  practical 
knowledge,  but  who  has  been  trained  by  his  theoretical 
studies  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  the  trouble  and  so  to  remedy 
it.     Besides  all  this,  the  study  of  pure  science  stimulates 
research,  and  it  is  to  scientific  research  that  we  owe  the  most 
striking  development  of  the  modern  mind,  and  it  is  to  re- 
search carried  on  by  men  trained  in  such  institutions  as  this 
that  we  are  to  look  for  the  advancement  of  knowledge  in 
the  future.     I  congratulate  this  institution  that,  in  spite  of 
the   temptation  to   found  and  develop   a  purely  technical 
school,  the  other  course  has  been  taken  and  an  institution  has 
been  established  in  which  the  technical  arts  and  sciences  will 
spring,  as  they  ought  to  do,  from  a  thorough  foundation  in 
theory;  and  I  again  extend  to  the  president  our  congratu- 
lations on  the  purposes  and  noble  aims  of  this  Institute,  and 
our  best  wishes  that  these  will  develop  into  full  fruition. 

1:227] 


r 


1 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Professor  William  Holding  Echols:  The  Trustees 

of  Rice  Institute,  Mr.  President,  my  Colleagues,  Ladies  and 
Gentlemen  present— It  is  somewhat  fitting  that  he  who 
brings  Virginia's  greetings  to  you  should  be  a  Southerner, 
and,  as  it  happens,  in  a  sense  a  Texan,  since  he  was  born  in 

San  Antonio. 

I  bear  a  message  from  the  oldest  Southern  State  to  the 
youngest  and  most  powerful  of  these  States. 

In  old  Virginia  on  the  east,  in  younger  Texas  on  the  west, 
and  in  all  that  land  which  lies  between  them  without  a  break, 
live  the  most  homogeneous  people  of  one  blood  in  all  these 

United  States. 

It  is  somewhat  difficult  at  times  for  others  to  understand 
why  we  Southern  people  love  so  intensely  the  soil  into  which 
our  blood  has  gone  and  out  of  which  our  blood  has  come, 
the  deep  affection  and  the  swift  understanding  which  we 
have  in  one  another,  the  mutual  dependence  and  trust  with 
which  we  lean  upon  each  other. 

For  forty  years  the  energy  of  the  South  has  been  absorbed 
in  striving  to  satisfy  the  craving  of  the  primitive  belly-need 
of  a  wrecked  people. 

During  that  period  there  was  scant  time  among  her  sons 
for  what  is  called  education,  there  were  small  means  for 
them  for  what  is  called  culture. 

Let  there  be  no  mistake  when  one  says  the  South  is  un- 
educated, lest  by  that  one  means  the  South  is  ignorant.  This 
Southern  generation  knows  that  it  has  been  hewing  wood, 
drawing  water;  that  it  has  made  its  bricks  without  the  straw, 
but    steadfastly,    quietly    reconstructing,    rehabilitating    ah 

initio. 

The  South  knows,  and  she  has  known  it  all  along,  that  her 
people  are  coming  into  their  own  inheritance  again.  A  sus- 
picion of  this  is  even  now  felt  beyond  her  borders. 

[2283 


J 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

The  South  has  now  passed  through  those  dark  days  of 
feeding  mouths  and  clothing  bodies  after  devastation.  She 
has  not  time,  even  as  yet,  for  the  gentler  things  of  literature, 
music,  and  art.  But  she  has  come  to  the  day  when  no  longer 
shall  she  bear  the  transit,  run  the  level,  and  drag  the  chain 
of  an  alien  industry  in  the  exploitation  of  her  own  resources. 

It  is  of  intensely  human  interest  to  reflect  that,  in  one 
generation  after  the  bitterest  and  most  fratricidal  war  the 
world  has  known,  much  of  the  means  for  the  highest  re- 
habilitation of  her  people  has  come  from  the  personal  kind- 
liness and  friendly  generosity  of  a  one-time  foe. 

Your  splendid  endowment  has  come  from  one  Initially 
across  the  line.  Also  to  Virginia  has  come  from  a  similar 
source,  for  a  similar  purpose,  more  than  a  million  of  dollars; 
and  so  it  was  with  Vanderbilt  University,  the  Peabody 
funds,  and  many  others.  He  who  writes  the  history  of  this 
people  cannot  ignore  these  deep-rooting  influences. 

Here  to  Texas,  the  youngest  of  these  States,  has  come 
this  golden  opportunity,  this  great  responsibility  and  sacred 
trust.  It  is  within  your  power  to  respond  to  the  great  and 
crying  need  of  a  people  near  and  dear  to  you.  Yours  is  the 
exalted  privilege  and  sacred  duty  to  breed  for  that  people 
leaders  of  men,  leaders  of  industry,  and  leaders  of  thought; 
men  trained  to  depend  upon  the  solidity  of  scientific  truth, 
with  minds  so  philosophically  trained  that  they  may  organize 
the  present  and  with  far-reaching  insight  design  the  future; 
men  so  prepared  that  they  may  enter  the  lists  to  claim  and 
hold  for  the  South  her  people's  share  in  their  birthright  of 
her  natural  resources. 

The  South  is  potentially  the  richest  part  of  the  United 
States,  and  we  are  the  legitimate  heirs  of  her  treasures.  ^ 

It  is  only  through  the  minds  of  men  splendidly  trained  in 
technology  and  the  laboratory,  transmitting  energy  for  the 

[229: 


(f 


% 


<y 


I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

transmutation  of  the  raw  products  of  mine  and  soil  through 
furnace  and  mill  into  the  finished  detail,  that  we  can  hope  to 
hold  that  which  has  been  bequeathed  to  us. 

Yours  is  the  function  to  generate  these  men.  Smaller  in- 
stitutions can  supply  the  rank  and  file,  but  yours  is  the  oppor- 
tunity, the  ability,  and  the  solemn  duty  to  carry  forward  this 
high  mission  of  making  high  men,  keeping  ever  in  mind  that 
it  is  the  knowledge  of  the  truth  that  makes  men  free. 

There  can  be  no  need  to  fear  for  the  coming  of  literature, 
music,  and  art  to  a  sensitive  and  imaginative  people.  These 
things  will  come  as  naturally  in  their  proper  order  as  does 
the  rising  sun,  after  the  sterner  diet  of  which  I  speak.  Food 
and  clothing,  then  possession  and  power— after  them,  as 
always,  the  Muses  come. 

To  you  gentlemen  of  the  Board  of  Trustees  of  the  Rice 
Institute  the  University  of  Virginia  bids  me  present  her 
heartfelt  congratulations  upon  the  good  fortune  of  your  op- 
portunity, upon  the  far-sighted  largeness  of  your  design,  and 
upon  that  splendid  courage  with  which  you  announce  to 
those  that  are  to  come  to  you  that  there  shall  be  no  upper 
limit  to  intellectual  attainment  save  that  which  God  has 
placed  upon  their  personalities.  We  assembled  here  could 
not  wish  more  for  the  welfare  of  your  progress  and  the  suc- 
cess of  your  design  than  to  hope  that  some  of  the  genius  of 
that  great  master  of  science,  he  who  was  to  have  been  with 
us  in  body  to-day,  and  whose  spirit,  we  know,  must  ever  be 
present  where  men  gather  in  search  of  truth,  may  descend 
upon  this  place  and  energize  it  into  creative  thought. 

Virginia  congratulates  you  upon  your  choice  of  the  man  to 
carry  forward  your  design  and  lead  your  hope  to  its  fulfil- 
ment.   She  is  proud  that  he  is  one  of  her  own  dear  sons. 

And  now  to  you,  Mr.  President,  from  your  Alma  Mater, 
I  pass  the  burning  cross,  and  with  it  Virginia's  congratula- 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

tions  upon  your  high  purpose.  She  looks  with  motherly 
sympathy  upon  your  endeavor,  and  will  follow  with  anxious, 
loving  eyes  the  development  of  your  plans.  She  bids  you 
courage,  honest  work  for  the  day,  honest  hope  for  the  mor- 
row,  and  prayerfully  God-speed. 

President  Harry  Pratt  Judson  :  Mr.  President,  La- 
dies and  Gentlemen— It  is  my  privilege  to  bring  from  the 
University  of  Chicago  warm  congratulations  to  you  on  this 
very  auspicious  occasion.    I  bring  them  from  the  faculty  and 
the  trustees,  who  know  what  it  is  to  create  a  new  institution, 
and  who  have  confidence  in  what  you  are  about  to  do  here. 
I  come  from  a  city  which,  I  think,  has  special  reasons  to 
have  a  great  interest  in  all  the  Southland.    You  will  pardon 
me,  Mr.  President,  when  I  recall  one  thing  you  said  last 
night  at  the  opening  of  the  exercises,  if  I  can  remember  back 
so  long  as  that,  because  the  opening  and  the  closing  of  those 
exercises  were  very  far  apart,  but  I  think  you  said  you  had 
forgotten  every  story  you  ever  heard.     I  seem  also  to  have 
forgotten  every  story  I  ever  heard,  except  some  of  the 
stories  about  Chicago,  and  the  particular  one  related  last 
night  I  am  not  going  to  repeat.    On  consulting  my  note-book 
I  find  that  my  record  for  that  particular  story  is  1746.   An- 
other one  has  a  record  of  something  like  762.    The  record 
of  a  third  one  up  to  the  present  time  is  2107;  that  is  to  say, 
I  have  heard  it  repeated  that  number  of  times  since  I  began 
to  count,  and  for  this  reason,  Mr.  President,  I  will  not  tell 
any  now.     I  mention  this  record,  however,  merely  by  way 
of  indicating  that  I  think  many  people  are  interested  in  Chi- 
cago.   The  invitation  that  we  have  received  to  your  festival 
indicates  at  least  that  we  are  not  forgotten  in  the  South, 
and  in  turn  I  beg  to  assure  you  that  we  do  not  forget  our 
friends.    It  has  been  said  that  a  visitor  in  Boston  is  asked, 

1:230 


I 


n 


r 


:  i 


It 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

What  do  you  know?  In  New  York  he  is  asked,  How  much 
have  you?  In  Philadelphia,  Who  was  your  grandfather? 
But  if  I  may  judge,  Mr.  President,  by  the  very  lavish  and 
extensive  hospitality  that  we  have  enjoyed  in  these  few  days 
here,  it  appears  that  a  newcomer  in  Houston  is  asked.  What 
can  we  do  for  you?  And  it  is  because  of  this  spirit  that  I 
desire  especially  to  congratulate  the  City  of  Houston  on  this 
great  enterprise.  The  coming  of  this  institution,  so  splen- 
didly and  wisely  erected,  we  believe  will  be  a  great  benefit 
not  only  to  your  city  but  to  your  entire  community. 

This  occasion  takes  me  back  twenty  years,  to  the  time 
when  we  were  founding  in  Chicago  an  institution  very  well 
provided  for  at  that  day.  And  at  that  time  the  heads  of 
our  city  and  State  institutions  were  saying  that  perhaps  the 
new  university  would  prove  to  be  a  dangerous  rival.  It  was 
not  many  years,  however,  before  they  found  that  nothing 
better  than  the  new  university  could  have  happened  for  the 
spreading  of  the  university  idea  and  its  benefits  to  education. 
Since  that  time  the  other  city  and  State  institutions  have  gone 
forward  by  leaps  and  bounds,  in  students,  in  prestige,  and  in 
usefulness.  Precisely  the  same  way  the  Rice  Institute  will 
prove  to  be  the  very  best  of  assets  to  the  colleges  and  uni- 
versities and  all  enterprises  of  public  education  in  your  sec- 
tion. 

We  congratulate  you  again,  Mr.  President,  on  the  splen- 
did and  large  views  with  which  your  Institution  starts.  In 
the  old  days  the  teacher  taught  what  he  had  been  taught, 
and  was  satisfied  to  stop  there.  In  these  days  a  teacher  is 
not  alive  unless  he  is  on  the  firing-line  of  science,  unless  he 
has  knowledge  of  the  most  recent  achievements  and  is  press- 
ing those  still  further  in  all  directions.  And  we  rejoice  that 
you  are  aiming  to  devote  a  large  part  of  your  resources  to 

[232;] 


Haiter-lOUhelm-GekUrchaft  zut  Tdtderunci  der  U 


He 


den    ** ,    o«»jt>r' 


jgnij 


(i 


ei  ae? 


KiS  ifC  f    2i* 


,-/'-^" 


5  f^  ,Ti 


Se 


'fir  S 


isur  Fa^iiti 


■  i 


Herm  ivip'3 


jn 


■  j^-jy  iy^::(trV,i»''" 


»    :    MJ 


M 


M     i 

I 
^n  I 


>   I 
'   I 

t    I 


II 


Whn!-  d. 


pre 


TITUTE 

Vf-^^  k  he        >kcd,  How  much 

avibli  and 
hese  lew  davs 

iOdlAO  :i>;-vca,  What 

nd  it  :  ??^}^t.  spirit  that  i 

'  •  ">a  this 
institution,  so  splea- 
-reat  benefit 
luriiiiiunity. 

fo  the  time 

luri'    ell 

time  the  heads  of 
•"  -hips  the 
i'ous  rival,    it  was 
1  that  nothing 
ew  uni  •>•  could  havi^  happened  for  the 

Tctf-v  ii-le^  -^^d  tt^  h^nefit^  to  educanon. 

^mi  nine  the  other  city  and  :>[ate  insucuuons  have  gone 

(nrrv^rc]  'd  bound?,  in  students,  in  prestige,  and  in 

usefuiness.     irecisciy  inL  a.u;.  ut^  will 

best  of  asset         the  colleges  and  uni- 

^  '  •  '■  :'v"r  sec- 


netter  than  t 


W 


anu 


Uisiicu 

.  '.CSS  h'^ 


ing  rnos 


'iO      T  > 


aii  di rec 


IV'fr    Prp-^idrnt.  on  the  snlen- 

liStiUiCion  start'>        m 

ad  been  taught, 

.^cher  is 

ne  of  science,  unless  he 

n^-«->'      ,.d  is  press- 

\nd  we  rejoice  that 

,    J     resources  to 


V- 


%jm.-       'tiBBB'™>''''."S* 


Kaiter-XOilhclm-ecTeUtdiaft  zur  ¥6rderung  dcr  lOittcntchaftcn. 


Berlin  niO 7.  den    4,    Sep  te,fiter\9\2 

KbnlglldJt  Btbllothek. 

Tcliphon .  Rmt  2rntrjni  Hr.  11542. 


J^urer  Uagnifizenz 

spr^che   ich  jVa,nens  aer  Kiiser-^il^oLn-'OeBclUor.iJt  /v- 

die  freur cliche  Sinlidur.g  zur   TcilniKne   2-.   der  ^^r^ojf- 
nungsfeier  des     R  i    c  c     J  n   s    t    i    t   u    t   s      aV.a  jer- 
bindJic.sie:  Dink   lus ,    J^u   ihrem  Bediuem   ist   jeaocn  aie 
Gesellscni^t  nicr.t    in  dcr  Lare,    zu   cen  Fes.li  c^-^ci  :.r., 
denen  sie   einen  frohen    una   gidnzenaen    Verl.uJ   ^c^insc.t, 
einen    7er:,reter  zu  entsenaen. 


Se  in e  r  I'l on  ifi zerz 
dem  Prdsidenten  aes 
Rice       Jnstitucs 
Herrn  Sdgir  Ode  11   Lovett 

in 

H  0  y  s    t  0  n. 


Prdsider.t  der  Kii  ser^Jilhelm-ucsel  Iscmft 
i^ur  Fdrderung  aer  fissensch^' ten. 


'._  *- -  ,■  'rfv-. 


I . 


f 


'11 


1> 


J^^':,^l£-^JL^^Lt»^.i>JL^1)aL^^-:'*'-jr--^  i 


,» 


>s 


Pi 


I' 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

research  in  scientific  knowledge.  The  learned  chief  justice 
this  morning  told  of  some  of  the  things  which  science  has 
done  in  our  day.  There  are  few  things  more  fascinating. 
The  world  has  a  very  great  deal  to  thank  science  for.  For 
example,  take  medicine  alone.  Just  think  of  the  communi- 
ties which  a  very  few  years  ago  were  terror-stricken  and 
harassed  by  epidemics  of  various  malignant  diseases.  To- 
day such  epidemics  are  practically  unknown.  Only  a  few 
years  ago  malaria  and  yellow  fever  were  ills  to  be  dreaded. 
To-day,  thanks  to  applied  science  in  medicine,  we  have  found 
adequate  remedies  for  each  of  these  scourges. 

Another  cause   for  congratulation,   Mr.   President,  wdl 
appear  in  what  such  an  institution  as  yours  is  going  to  mean 
to  the  community  in  which  it  lives.     Your  great  institution 
is  going  to  be  an  evangelic  light  to  your  entire  community, 
for  it  will  be  the  means  of  advancing,  among  all  people  of 
all  kinds,  the  scientific  attitude  toward  life.    The  future  of 
this  university  will  depend  not  alone  on  your  splendid  and 
magnificent  hospitality,  not  alone  on  these  beautiful  and 
majestic  buildings,  not  alone  on  your  large  programs  for 
study  and  research,  but  quite  as  much  will  the  real  fruitage 
of  your  institution  depend  on  the  men  who  work  here.     Its 
future  will  be  made  by  the  men  who  carry  on  in  these  halls 
the  researches  of  the  scholar;  by  the  men  who  will  lead  and 
guide  the  university  to  success;  by  the  men,  the  professional 
men,  who  will  go  out  of  it— the  lawyers,  the  engineers,  the 
architects,  and  the  plain,  solid  men  of  business  who  make 
our  country;  the  men  who  will  put  into  the  life  of  the  Repub- 
lic the  knowledge  and  the  training  which  they  will  derive 
from  the  results  of  your  venture.     On  so  auspicious  a  be- 
ginning and  on  so  bright  a  prospect  I  congratulate  you  most 
warmly. 

1:2333 


i     k 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

President  Sidney  Edward  Mezes:  Mr.  President, 
Ladies  and  Gentlemen— From  the  first  announcement  of 
William  Marsh  Rice's  magnificent  bequest  we  have  looked 
forward  with  lively  anticipation  to  this  day.  We  have 
watched  with  growing  interest  the  development  of  the  trus- 
tees' plans;  we  rejoiced  greatly  when  we  learned  that  they 
were  resolved  to  risk  the  charge  of  tardiness  rather  than 
build  heedlessly;  we  especially  rejoiced  when  we  saw  chosen 
to  the  office  of  president  one  of  America's  ablest  and  best 
trained  scholars. 

In  the  new  president  we  have  found  not  merely  an  able 
and  aspiring  man,  not  merely  a  man  of  noble  conceptions 
and  prophetic  visions,  but  a  man  so  genial  of  heart,  so  true 
in  his  sympathies,  so  inspiringly  hopeful,  that  he  has  carried 
light  wherever  he  has  gone,  and  conviction  also  that  the  in- 
stitution whose  course  he  guides  will  bring  an  influence  that 
deserves  and  will  find  a  congenial  home  in  Texas. 

In  some  States  of  the  Union  the  several  colleges  and  uni- 
versities have  not  dwelt  together  in  the  unity  commended 
of  the  Psalmist.  The  colleges,  for  the  most  part  on  private 
foundations,  have  often  distrusted  one  another  and  united 
in  distrust  of  the  State  university.  This  distrust  has  given 
rise  to  conduct  at  times  organized  into  sustained  campaigns, 
intent  on  the  purpose  of  mutual  harm,  and  only  too  success- 
ful in  attaining  that  unworthy  end.  Few  pages  in  the  edu- 
cational history  of  our  country  are  so  disheartening  to  high 
endeavor.  But  from  such  misguided  enterprise  Texas  has 
most  fortunately  been  unusually  free.  Across  her  broad 
expanses  the  winds  of  freedom  and  tolerance  have  swept, 
scattering  the  fogs  of  prejudice  and  self-seeking  as  from 
time  to  time  they  formed;  and  to-day,  perhaps  as  nowhere 
in  America,  there  prevails  practically  throughout  our  State 
a  spirit  of  the  fullest  friendliness  and  co-operation  among 

1:2343 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

colleges  and  universities,  endowed  and  State-sustained.  That 
the  new  Rice  Institute  will  strike  a  note  of  discord  we  have 
no  fear.  Why  should  we?  Why  should  not  a  fresh  worker  be 
welcomed  into  the  vineyard,  when  his  aim  is  our  own,  with 
a  slant  of  fortunate  difference;  when  the  field  is  white  to  the 
harvest,  and  the  laborers  are  few?  Seeing  that  barely  one 
out  of  every  ten  high-school  graduates  takes  any  higher  edu- 
cation whatever;  that  in  Texas  only  one  out  of  twenty  of  our 
boys  and  girls  goes  to  college,  whereas  in  California,  for 
example,  the  proportion  is  one  in  eight;  how  can  we  do 
otherwise  than  rejoice  at  the  founding  of  a  new  agency  to 
help  alter  these  distressing  figures?  Facing  together  some 
of  the  most  vital  problems  before  State  and  Nation,  shall 
we  not  be  glad  that  the  new  institution  is  now  among  us, 
blessed  with  the  means  to  render  great  service? 

And  now.  President  Lovett  and  members  of  the  Board  of 
Trustees,  we  welcome  the  Rice  Institute  into  the  brother- 
hood of  Texas  colleges  and  universities;  we  welcome  you 
formally  and  with  all  our  hearts.  You  will  play  a  splendid 
part  in  the  upbuilding  of  Texas;  you  will  help  train  our 
youth;  you  will  cherish  learning;  you  will  foster  research; 
your  achievements  and  example  will  stir  us  to  renewed  en- 
deavor. In  the  noble  setting  of  spacious  grounds;  with 
buildings  planned  by  a  great  artist;  with  a  faculty  chosen 
from  all  the  world;  with  the  stimulus  of  a  rapidly  growing 
city  about  you,  to  all  human  seeing  the  future  holds  for  you 
a  glorious  destiny.    One  and  all  we  unite  to  say: 

Esto  perpetual 


President  Lovett:  Ladies  and  Gentlemen— ¥or  the 
trustees  and  faculty  of  the  Rice  Institute  I  thank  most  sin- 
cerely these  gentlemen  and  all  the  institutions  they  represent 
for  their  cordial  greetings  and  for  the  warm  welcome  with 

1:2353 


>'»i!yyi»ifc->"*'*''*''?Lli?*''''"*'f  i?!?'-*  *  *'**^^ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

which  they  receive  us  into  their  fellowship  and  that  of  the 
world  of  learning.  I  can  find  no  words  in  which  adequately 
to  say  to  them  what  their  presence  means  to  us  at  this  time. 
In  return  for  their  great  kindness  we  can  only  offer  them  the 
place  in  our  history  which  they  have  made  for  themselves. 
And  most  cordially  do  we  invite  them  one  and  all  to  come 
back.  For  their  coming  we  thank  God,  and  from  their  mes- 
sages we  take  courage. 


RELIGIOUS  SERVICES 

SUNDAY  OCTOBER  THIRTEEN 

CITY  AUDITORIUxM 


I 


II 


n236n 


Hymn-O  God,  our  help  in  ages  past 


;. 


Voices  in  harmony 


^ 


^^ 


ff 


-fj- 


CM. 
Dr.  Croft 
/^  Sir  Arthur  S.  Sullivan,  Mus.  Doc. 


( 


IZ 


:g 


:g 


-^ 


I 


-O- 


TT 


1.  0      God,  our    help   in      a  -  ges  past,  Our   hope  for  years  to    come, 


S 


p 


«^ 


21 


i 


TZ. 


O 


T 


^^ 


/^ 


? 


* 


^ 


T 


E 


z: 


^ 


te 


's:/ 


!Z 


i9- 


SC 


fi: 


■^ir 


/^ 


^3 


Our    shel-ier    from  the    storm-y       blast     And      our    e    -   ter-nal  home. 


^3 


2.  Under  the  shadow  of  Thy  throne 
Thy  saints  have  dwelt  secure; 
Sufficient  is  Thine  arm  alone, 
And  our  defense  is  sure. 

3. Before  the  hills  in  order  stood, 
Or  earth  received  her  frame, 
From  everlasting  Thou  art  God, 
To  endless  years  the  same. 

4.  A  thousand  ages  in  Thy  sight 

Are  like  an  evening  gone; 
Short  as  the  watch  that  ends  the  night 
Before  the  rising  sun. 

5.  Time,  like  an  everrolling  stream, 

Bears  all  its  sons  away; 

They  fly,  forgotten  as  a  dream 

Dies  at  the  opening  day. 

6.  O  God,  our  help  in  ages  past. 

Our  hope  for  years  to  come, 
Be  Thou  our  guide  while  life  shall  last. 
And  our  eternal  home. 

1:239] 


II 


m 


Lfff***"»S«Suife?!!|u! 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


INVOCATION 


President  Edgar  Odell  Lovett 

Almighty  and  most  merciful  Father,  we  have  erred,  and 
strayed  from  Thy  ways  like  lost  sheep.  We  have  followed 
too  much  the  devices  and  desires  of  our  own  hearts.  We 
have  offended  against  Thy  holy  laws.  We  have  left  undone 
those  things  which  we  ought  to  have  done;  And  we  have 
done  those  things  which  we  ought  not  to  have  done;  And 
there  is  no  health  in  us.  But  Thou,  O  Lord,  have  mercy 
upon  us,  miserable  offenders.  Spare  Thou  those,  O  God, 
who  confess  their  faults.  Restore  Thou  those  who  are  peni- 
tent; According  to  Thy  promises  declared  unto  mankind  in 
Christ  Jesus  our  Lord.  And  grant,  O  most  merciful  Father, 
for  His  sake,  That  we  may  hereafter  live  a  godly,  righteous, 
and  sober  life.  To  the  glory  of  Thy  holy  Name. 

Our  Father,  who  art  in  heaven.  Hallowed  be  Thy  Name. 
Thy  kingdom  come,  Thy  will  be  done  on  earth.  As  it  is  in 
heaven.  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread.  And  forgive  us 
our  trespasses.  As  we  forgive  those  who  trespass  against  us. 
And  lead  us  not  into  temptation;  But  deliver  us  from  evil; 
For  Thine  is  the  kingdom,  and  the  power,  and  the  glory,  for 
ever  and  ever.    Amen. 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Hymn-O  God  of  Bethel 

CM. 
Sir  John  Stainer  Mus.  Doc. 


^ 


t 


E 


^ 


ttS 


^— z 


2: 


f\  ?l  \^i 


10  God  of    Bethel,    byWhose hand  Thy      peo-ple     still    are     fedj 


^S 


42- 


E 


G—Q- 


9- 


P 


rr 


ZtZZ 


-a 


o  o 


o  o 


I 


Who  thro' this      wea-ry        pil-grim  -  age   Hast    all  our     fathers  led.  Amen 


g 


m 


]£ 


I^ 


SI 


2.  Our  vows,  our  prayers, we  now  present 

Before  Thy  throne  of  grace: 
God   of  our  fathers,  be  the  God 
Of  their  succeeding  race. 

3.  Through  each  perplexing  path  of  life 

Our  wandering  footsteps  guide; 
Give  us  each  day  our  daily  bread. 
And  raiment  fit  provide. 

4.  Oh,  spread  Thy  sheltering  wings  around, 

Till  all   our  wanderings  cease. 
And  at  our  Father's  loved  abode 
Our  souls  arrive  in  peace! 

5.  Such  blessings  from  Thy  gracious  hand 

Our  humble  prayers  implore; 
AndThou  shalt  be  our  chosen  God, 
And  portion   evermore. 


< 


H 


P.  Doddridge,  1736 


C2403 


1:2413 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


SCRIPTURE  READING  AND  PRAYER 


Dr.  Henry  van  Dyke 

1.  Though  I  speak  with  the  tongues  of  men  and  of  angels, 
and  have  not  charity,  I  am  become  as  sounding  brass  or  a 
tinkling  cymbal. 

2.  And  though  I  have  the  gift  of  prophecy,  and  under- 
stand all  mysteries,  and  all  knowledge;  and  though  I  have 
all  faith,  so  that  I  could  remove  mountains,  and  have  not 
charity,  I  am  nothing. 

3.  And  though  I  bestow  all  my  goods  to  feed  the  poor, 
and  though  I  give  my  body  to  be  burned,  and  have  not  char- 
ity, it  profiteth  me  nothing. 

4.  Charity  suffereth  long,  and  is  kind;  charity  envieth 
not;  charity  vaunteth  not  itself,  is  not  puffed  up, 

5.  Doth  not  behave  itself  unseemly,  seeketh  not  her  own, 
is  not  easily  provoked,  thinketh  no  evil ; 

6.  Rejoiceth  not  in  iniquity,  but  rejoiceth  in  the  truth; 

7.  Beareth  all  things,  believeth  all  things,  hopeth  all 
things,  endureth  all  things. 

8.  Charity  never  faileth:  but  whether  there  be  prophe- 
cies, they  shall  fail;  whether  there  be  tongues,  they  shall 
cease;  whether  there  be  knowledge,  it  shall  vanish  away. 

9.  For  we  know  in  part,  and  we  prophesy  in  part. 

10.  But  w^hen  that  which  is  perfect  is  come,  then  that 
which  is  in  part  shall  be  done  away. 

11.  When  I  was  a  child,  I  spake  as  a  child,  I  understood 
as  a  child,  I  thought  as  a  child:  but  when  I  became  a  man, 
I  put  away  childish  things. 

[2423 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

12.  For  now  we  see  through  a  glass,  darkly;  but  then  face 
to  face:  now  I  know  in  part;  but  then  shall  I  know  even  as 
also  I  am  known. 

13.  And  now  abideth  faith,  hope,  charity,  these  three; 
but  the  greatest  of  these  is  charity. 

/  Corinthians^  xiii. 

Great  Lord  of  Life!  Creator  of  all  things  seen  and  un- 
seen! We  rise  up  with  an  awful  joy  to  worship  Thee  in 
spirit  and  in  truth.  Cast  down  our  earthly  pride;  shame 
from  Thy  presence  our  sinful  cares  and  low  desires;  breathe 
with  Thy  blest  spirit  on  the  sacred  fires  of  our  hearts;  and 
may  we  stand  before  Thee  face  to  face,  as  heirs  of  glorious 
hopes  and  sons  of  the  holy  God.  While  our  fathers  serve 
Thee  in  other  worlds  of  Thy  love,  amid  spirits  of  more 
heavenly  race,  we  would  seek  Thee  with  a  lowly  faith,  and 
trust  our  lot  and  times  to  Thee.  Thou  art  too  near  for  our 
eye  to  see  Thee,  too  far  for  our  outstretched  mind  to  reach; 
yet  is  Thy  presence  ever  in  the  midst;  and  along  the  path- 
way of  our  life,  and  the  wanderings  of  our  hearts,  and  the 
transit  of  our  days,  we  are  alone  unchangeably  with  Thee. 

Almighty  God,  whose  kingdom  is  everlasting  and  power 
infinite;  Have  mercy  upon  this  whole  land;  and  so  rule  the 
hearts  of  Thy  servants  the  President  of  the  United  States, 
the  Governor  of  this  State,  the  Mayor  of  this  City,  and  all 
others  in  authority,  that  they,  knowing  whose  ministers  they 
are,  may  above  all  things  seek  Thy  honor  and  glory;  and 
that  we  and  all  the  people,  duly  considering  whose  authority 
they  bear,  may  faithfully  and  obediently  honor  them,  in 
Thee  and  for  Thee,  according  to  Thy  blessed  Word  and 
ordinance;  through  Jesus  Christ  our  Lord,  who  with  Thee 
and  the  Holy  Ghost  liveth  and  reigneth  ever,  one  God, 
world  without  end. 

[2433 


\ 


( 


»i 


'  V. 


..r»..^^ita..jm.*mt.mmJmt..r^  tr'te'.tt  tt^  jm-  1  ■  fW'-.  >    m  iir*  IT  -"1.  ''^I'll'  idl>  tfH  ti>  Mf  AUlaJiM  jll.JE-A«Cai^  ■ 


Ml 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

O  Thou  Lord  of  all,  who  didst  send  Thy  Word  to  speak 
in  the  prophets  and  live  in  Thy  Son;  and  appoint  Thy 
Church  to  be  witness  of  divine  things  in  all  the  world;  revive 
the  purity  and  deepen  the  power  of  its  testimony;  and 
through  the  din  of  earthly  interests  and  the  storm  of  human 
passions,  let  it  make  the  still,  small  voice  of  Thy  Spirit 
keenly  felt.  Nearer  and  nearer  may  Thy  kingdom  come 
from  age  to  age;  meeting  the  face  of  the  young  as  a  rising 
dawn,  and  brightening  the  song  of  the  old,  ''Lord,  now 
lettest  Thou  Thy  servant  depart  in  peace."  Already  let  its 
light  abash  our  guilty  negligence,  and  touch  with  hope  each 
secret  sorrow  of  the  earth.  By  the  cleansing  spirit  of  Thy 
Son,  make  this  world  a  fitting  forecourt  to  that  sanctuary 
not  made  with  hands,  where  our  life  is  hid  with  Christ  in 

God. 

O  Father  of  light,  and  Source  of  knowledge,  who  canst 
be  taught  of  none,  and  whose  inspiration  hath  giv^en  us  un- 
derstanding! O  Thou  who  art  love  and  dwellest  in  love! 
teach  us  to  be  followers  of  Thee  as  Thy  dear  children.  We 
praise  Thee  for  all  thy  wonderful  works  to  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  men.  The  work  of  our  hands,  establish  Thou 
it  upon  us,  we  pray  Thee.  Thy  rich  and  abiding  blessings 
grant  to  the  new  university  of  liberal  and  technical  learning 
whose  interests  have  assembled  us  in  this  service  of  praise 
and  thanksgiving.  We  praise  Thee  for  the  founder's  great 
gift  to  the  people.  We  praise  Thee  for  the  great  work  his 
trustees  have  inaugurated.  Give  wisdom  and  sound  judg- 
ment to  the  president  and  all  those  associated  with  him  in 
shaping  the  policy  and  directing  the  destiny  of  this  univer- 
sity. May  constantly  increasing  streams  of  men  go  forth 
from  these  halls  of  learning,  trained  in  the  highest  degree, 
equipped  in  the  largest  sense  for  positions  of  trust  in  the 
public  service,  for  posts  of  leadership  in  the  world's  affairs. 

[244] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

May  all  who  pursue  letters  and  science  and  art  at  the  Rice 
Institute,  by  these  disciplines  as  allies  of  religion,  be  led  to 
Thee  who  art  the  highest  and  yet  the  nearest,  the  holiest  and 
yet  the  One  who  loves  us  best. 

Almighty  God,  who  hast  given  us  grace  at  this  time  with 
one  accord  to  make  our  common  supplications  unto  Thee; 
and  dost  promise  that  when  two  or  three  are  gathered  to- 
gether in  Thy  Name  thou  wilt  grant  their  requests;  Fulfil 
now,  O  Lord,  the  desire  and  petition  of  Thy  servants,  as 
may  be  most  expedient  for  them;  granting  us  in  this  world 
knowledge  of  Thy  truth,  and  in  the  world  to  come  life  ever- 
lasting.   Amen. 


\ 


itl 


1:2451 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


Hymn-A  Mig-hty  Fortress  is  our  God 


Martin  Liithe: 


JAmieht-y      fort-jess    is     our      God,     A        sure    de  -  fenc 
fHehefpsus     free  from    ev-'ry       need  Which  hath     us     now 


nd 
o^er- 


Deep   guile  and     great 


might    Are      his  dread    arms  in 


fight,-  On 


2  In  our  own  strength  can  naught  be  done_  3.And  were  the  world  with  devils  fiUed, 


Our  loss  were  soon  effected^ 
There  fights  for  us  the  Proper  One, 
By  God  himself  elected. 

Ask  you  who  frees  us? 

It  is  Christ  Jesus - 

The  Lord  Sabaoth, 

There  is  no  other  God; 
He'll  hold  the  field  of  battle. 


All  waiting  to  devour  us; 
We'll  still  succeed,  so  God  hath  willed,. 
They  cannot  overpower  us: 

The  Prince  of  this  world 

To  hell  shall  be  hurled; 

He  seeks  to  alarm, 

But  shall  do  us  no  harm; 
The  smallest   word  can  fell  Him. 


4. The  Word  they  still  must  let  remain, 
And  for  that  have  no  merit; 
For  He  is  with  us  on  the  plain, 
By  His  good  gifts  and  Spirit: 
Destroy  they  our  life, 
Goods,  fame,  child  and  wife? 
Let  all  pass  amain. 
They  still  no  conquest  gain, 
For  ours   is  still  the  kingdom. 

[246:] 


Martin  Ltither   1529 
Tr.  Joel    Swartz    187  9 


SERMON 


Rev.  Charles  Frederic  Aked 


WAITING  FOR  THE  SONS  OF  GOD 

"For  the  earnest  expectation  of  the  creation  waiteth  for  the  revealing  of 
the  sons  of  God." — Romans  viii,  ig, 

"For  all  creation,  gazing  eagerly  as  if  with  outstretched  neck,  Is  waiting 
and  longing  to  see  the  manifestation  of  the  sons  of  God."— Nfzt'  Tes- 
tament in  Modern  Speech. 

THIS  morning  we  will  make  no  attempt  to  reach  the 
height  of  Paul's  great  argument.  We  will  content 
ourselves  with  immediate,  practical  applications  of  his  pro- 
found thought.  His  view,  in  a  sentence,  is  that  all  animate 
and  inanimate  creation  protests  against  the  suffering  which 
has  been  imposed  upon  it;  that  the  universal  longing  for  a 
better  state  and  a  better  time  is  a  prophecy  of  distant  glory; 
that  these  sufferings  are  but  as  the  birth-pangs  of  new  and 
gladder  worlds;  that  the  universe  was  made  subject  to 
change,  in  hope  that  no  evil  thing  may  endure,  that  even 
Winter  may  change  to  Spring,  and  that  love  may  conquer  at 
the  last.  And  the  essential  condition  of  the  realization  of 
this  hope  is  the  appearance  of  the  sons  of  God— the  appear- 
ance, that  is  to  say,  of  good  men  and  women.  For  this  the 
creation,  gazing  eagerly  as  if  with  outstretched  neck,  waits 
and  longs.  The  good  time  coming— which  is  always  coming 
but  never  come— will  be  here:  the  prophecies  will  be  accom- 
plished fact;  the  radiant  dreams  of  poets  will  be  the  plain 
prose  of  life;  the  creation  itself  will  be  delivered  from  the 
bondage  of  corruption— in  proportion  as  the  race  produces 
men  and  women  who  are  manifestly  the  children  of  God. 
What  hinders  the  coming  of  God's  kingdom  amongst  men? 
How  hold  we  the  heaven  from  earth  away?  What  wait  we 
for?    We  are  waiting  for  more  men  and  women  heroic  and 

1:2473 


( 


( 


i 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

holy,  generous  and  good.     We  are  waiting  for  the  sons  of 
God. 

This  is  the  energy  of  all  moral  effort— a  steady  supply  of 
good  men  and  good  women.  This  is  the  steam  which  makes 
the  engine  move.  This  is  the  stored  up  potency  of  electricity 
which  lights  up  a  city  or  drives  the  vast  machinery  of  mod- 
ern life.  Do  great  men  produce  great  ages?  Or  do  great 
ages  produce  great  men?  These  are  questions  which  our 
Literary  and  Debating  Societies  have  been  arguing  for  a 
hundred  years.  Emerson  would  tell  you  that  an  institution 
is  only  the  lengthened  shadow  of  a  man:  Protestantism,  of 
Martin  Luther;  Quakerism,  of  George  Fox;  Abolitionism, 
of  Thomas  Clarkson;  Methodism,  of  John  Wesley.  All 
history  resolves  itself  quite  easily  into  the  life  stories  of  a 
few  stout  and  earnest  persons. 

To-day  we  give  God  thanks  for  the  Rice  Institute  of  Lib- 
eral and  Technical  Learning.  We  praise  the  Giver  of  all 
good  for  the  bright  hopes  which  have  gathered  about  these 
Dedication  hours.  We  rejoice  in  the  public  spirit  of  the  man 
whose  name  it  bears,  in  his  broad  and  generous  views,  his 
insight  into  our  common  needs,  his  prevision  of  the  dawning 
greatness  of  this  State,  his  love  of  the  fair  Southland.  We 
bless  God  for  the  inspiration  of  a  great  and  splendid  pur- 
pose in  the  soul  of  the  founder  of  this  University;  not  less 
do  we  praise  Him  for  the  men  who  have  given  themselves 
w^ith  patient,  self-denying,  patriotic  toil  to  the  achievement 
of  that  purpose.  Some  have  passed  into  the  Unseen:  some 
are  with  us  to-day.  One  sows:  another  reaps:  God  be 
praised.  Sower  and  Reaper  rejoice  together  1 

In  the  Rice  Institute  of  Liberal  and  Technical  Learning 
the  seeing  eye  perceives  an  incarnation  of  constructive  en- 
ergy. From  its  halls  and  laboratories  shall  go  forth  men 
and   women   who    are   men    and   women   indeed,    trained, 

[248] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

equipped,  fearless,  aspiring,  self-reliant,  faithful  to  con- 
science and  to  God — the  men  and  women  for  whom  creation 
waits !  Producing  such  streams  of  redemptive,  life-giving 
power,  the  Rice  Institute  shall  make  for  the  worth  and 
wealth,  the  health  and  happiness,  of  this  old  world.  And 
happiness  is  a  moral  asset,  never  doubt  it.  Diffused  amongst 
the  masses  of  the  people,  it  is  an  asset  of  incalculable  value 
in  the  life  of  a  nation.  It  is  hungry  men  who  make  revolu- 
tions. It  is  what  a  British  journalist  has  called  "a  mighty 
mob  of  famished,  diseased,  and  miserable  Helots"  who  men- 
ace the  security  of  life  and  property  in  the  midst  of  a  wealthy 
civilization.  Happy  men  and  women  are  under  no  tempta- 
tion to  become  anarchists.  A  honeymooning  couple  are  in 
no  mood  to  throw  dynamite  bombs  at  the  palaces  of  the  rich. 
Education,  all  the  world  over,  in  all  the  worlds  there  are  and 
in  all  ages,  is  emancipation.  It  manumits  and  It  edifies. 
First  it  frees  the  slave;  then  It  builds  the  man.  Capacity 
and  culture  — skill  for  the  hand  and  sight  for  the  soul — to 
open  to  the  Individual,  man  or  woman,  a  means  of  living  and 
the  meaning  of  life — why,  this  Is  patriotism  not  less  noble 
and  ennobling  than  that  of  the  heroic  men  whose  praises  our 
Laureate  hymned  yesterday,  who 

saw  the  niany-miUion-acred  land, 
Won  from  the  desert  by  their  hand, 
Swiftly  among  the  nations  rise, — 

Texas  a  sovereign  State, 

And  on  her  brow  a  star! 

It  is  poverty,  stupidity,  ignorance,  which  do  the  devIPs  work. 
The  world  is  cursed  by  ignorance  and  darkness.  It  will  be 
blessed  by  knowledge  and  light.  "Let  there  be  light!"— it 
is  the  creative  fiat.     It  thunders  down  the  ages  from  the 

[249] 


/ 


•  I 


*f 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

dawning  of  the  first  morning  of  the  world.  And  Jesus  said, 
"Give  them  to  eatl'' 

When  with  prayer  and  praise  and  in  communion  with  the 
Highest  we  dedicate  this  institution  to  the  advancement  of 
Letters,  Science,  and  Art,  we  dedicate  it  to  the  making  of 
men  and  the  making  of  nations.  We  dedicate  it  to  America  I 
It  is  our  contribution  to  the  stability  of  the  social  order,  to 
the  permanence  of  American  institutions,  to  the  propagation 
of  the  principles  for  which  America  stands  in  our  modern 
world,  to  the  perpetuation  of  the  forces  which  called  her  Into 
being  and  by  which  she  lives.  This  is  our  gift  to  the  great- 
ness of  our  land. 

For  the  forms  of  democracy  are  precisely  those  through 
which  corruption  most  easily  works  if  the  spirit  of  democ- 
racy be  lacking.  What  forces  inhere  in  law  and  constitution 
and  in  the  administration  of  law  which  may  not  be  blown  to 
the  four  winds  of  heaven  upon  the  breath  of  some  dema- 
gogue, drunk  with  the  lust  of  place  and  power,  most  igno- 
rant of  what  he  's  most  assured  of,  and  like  an  angry  ape 
playing  such  fantastic  tricks  before  high  heaven  as  make 
angels  weep  ?  This  country  was  brought  to  birth  under  com- 
pulsion of  the  ideal.  Heroes  who  poured  their  blood  out  for 
the  truth,  women  whose  hearts  bled,  martyrs  all  unknown, 
gave  birth  to  our  country  and  to  its  liberties.  Its  greatness 
goes  back  to  the  visionary  and  the  seer;  to  the  Jesuit  mis- 
sionary marching  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Mississippi,  to  the 
Pilgrim  and  the  Puritan  of  New  England,  the  Lutherans  of 
Pennsylvania,  the  Moravian  missionaries  of  Ohio,  and  all 
the  countless  hosts  of  the  obscure,  the  silent,  and  the  dead 
who,  living,  believed  in  God  and  His  goodness,  and  followed 
the  gleam.  What  is  to  preserve  in  our  modern  life  this  an- 
cient vigor  of  the  spirit?  What  is  to  keep  the  soul  of  the 
nation  alive? 

1:2503 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

On  what  grounds  do  you  believe  that  this  Republic  will 
endure?  No  republic  has  yet  endured  as  monarchies  have 
done.  Fifty  years  ago  some  of  the  most  thoughtful  minds 
in  Europe  were  satisfied  that  this  democracy  could  not  last. 
During  the  Civil  War  the  Prince  Consort,  Queen  Victoria's 
husband,  said,  with  a  sort  of  sardonic  satisfaction,  "Repub- 
lican institutions  are  on  their  trial.''  From  that  trial  repub- 
lican institutions  emerged  triumphant.  You  believe  that  the 
noonday  splendor  of  this  land  will  outshine  the  golden  glory 
of  its  dawn.  Whittier  declared  that  the  sons  and  daughters 
of  the  Pioneer  should 

Make  the  people^ s  council  hall 
As  lasting  as  the  pyramids. 


On  what  ground  does  this  conviction  rest?     But  on  what 
grounds  does  your  belief  rest?    Why  should  this  Republic 

endure? 

On  the  side  of  a  current  controversy  it  is  glibly  asserted 
that  in  the  last  analysis  a  State  rests  on  force.  The  oppo- 
nents of  a  popular  movement  go  on  repeating  this  dictum  as 
though  it  were  an  oracle  from  heaven.  A  State  rests  on 
nothing  of  the  kind.  And  force— by  which  is  meant  physical 
force— cannot  keep  a  nation  strong.  Force  could  not  save 
the  Roman  Republic.  Rome  possessed  the  finest  army  that 
has  ever  existed  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  As  a  fighting  ma- 
chine it  had  attained  unto  perfection.  And  the  Roman  Re- 
public failed.  To-day  Sir  Edward  Grey,  Secretary  of  State 
for  Foreign  Affairs  in  King  George's  cabinet,  has  warned 
the  British  Parliament  and  the  British  people  that  if  the 
insane  rivalry  of  the  nations  in  the  matter  of  military  and 
naval  strength  be  continued,  sooner  or  later  it  will  submerge 
civilization  itself. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

The  State  does  not  rest  on  force.     It  rests  upon  confi- 
dence—a vastly  different  thing.     The  basis  of  our  modern 
society  is  confidence  in  one  another.    You  who  know  a  thou- 
sand times  more  about  it  than  a  preacher  possibly  can,  let 
your  imagination  play  for  a  moment  about  the  vast,  far- 
reaching,  apparently  illimitable  ramifications  of  commerce 
made  possible  between  man  and  man.    How  much  business 
did  you  do  last  year,  and  how  much  are  you  hoping  to  do 
next,  upon  guarantees  not  very  much  stronger  than  the  word 
of  a  man  of  whom  you  know  little,  and  the  honor  of  corpo- 
rations the  individual  members  of  which  you  do  not  know  at 
all?     The  State  rests  upon  confidence  in  the  social  order; 
upon  our  common  trust  in  justice  and  in  the  administration 
of  justice,  in  law  and  the  sanctity  of  law.    And  if  the  objector 
says,  **Yes;  upon  the  knowledge  that  force  can  be  used  to 
secure  the  due  observance  of  law,"  the  answer  is  easy:  "You 
have  not  carried  your  analysis  far  enough."    Our  confidence 
is  not  grounded  in  the  conviction  that  the  State  can  control 
and  direct  physical  force,  but  in  the  conviction  that  the  force 
of  the  State  will  in  the  long  run  be  controlled  and  directed 
by  wise  and  good  ends.    That  is  to  say,  the  strength  of  states 
is  in  the  fundamental  rightness  of  our  human  nature  and 
our  undefined  belief  that  the  mass  of  mankind  would  rather 
do  right  than  wrong.    The  material  wealth  of  cities,  the  in- 
tegrity of  states,  the  happiness  of  kingdoms,  the  greatness 
of  a  republic,  alike  go  back  to  this,  to  the  number  of  good 
men  and  women  they  can  produce.     All  creation— all  crea- 
tion we  know,  Houston,  Texas,  the  South,  America,  our 
modern  civilization— gazing  eagerly  as  if  with  outstretched 
neck,  IS  waiting  and  longing  to  see  the  manifestation  of  the 
sons  of  God. 

We  have  felt  the  lack  of  this  driving  power  in  the  machin- 
ery of  our  social  and  political  life.    We  have  missed  the  note 

[252] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

of  moral  enthusiasm.  The  touch  of  a  high  spirit  upon  hu- 
man affairs  has  been  wanting.  We  seek  the  compulsion  of 
commanding  genius  and  character.  Such  a  voice  as  that 
which  once  from  Gettysburg,  all  fragrant  with  the  memo- 
ries of  a  nation's  dead,  shook  the  civilized  world,  is  heard 
no  more.  Our  big  men  are  not  big  enough.  Our  leaders 
are  too  far  in  the  rear  of  those  they  lead!  We  are  ready 
to  cry  out  again  with  the  poet— prophet  of  two  democracies : 

O  for  an  hour  of  that  undaunted  stock 
That  went  with  Vane  and  Sydney  to  the  block! 
O  for  a  whiff  of  Naseby,  that  would  sweep, 
With  its  stern  Puritan  besom,  all  this  chaff 
From  the  Lord^s  threshing-floor! 

For  our  conviction  is  that  deep  down  in  the  hearts  of  the 
people  there  is  a  capacity  for  being  led;  that  the  people  who 
are  being  led  wrong  could  be  led  right;  that  however  corrupt 
interests  deceive,  fool,  and  use  the  people,  there  is  still  that 
in  a  nation  which  might  be  called  the  soul  of  a  people;  and 
a  soul  which  would  wake  at  the  call  of  a  son  of  God.  Men 
are  there,  but  Man  is  missing.  And  like  our  wild-eyed  Hosea 
Biglow,  with  his  tongue  of  truth  and  heart  of  flame,  we 
feel- 

M ore  men f    More  man?    It  ^s  there  we  fail; 

Weak  plans  grow  weaker  yit  by  lengthening' 
Wut  use  in  addin'  to  the  tail, 

When  it  *s  the  head  '5  in  need  0'  strength' nin'f 

We  wanted  one  that  felt  all  Chief 

From  roots  of  hair  to  sole  of  stocking 

Square  sot  zvith  thousan'-ton  belief 
In  him  and  us,  ef  earth  went  rockin' ! 

1:2533 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

We  are  waiting  for  this  Man,  with  the  thousand-ton  belief 
in  himself  and  in  us,  in  Righteousness  and  God,  who  will 
give  expression  in  consecrated  and  consecrating  action  to  the 
social  aspirations  of  a  million  hearts.  We  are  waiting,  in 
the  high  places  of  the  land,  for  the  sons  of  God. 

That  is  not  all.  Let  us  come  to  something  even  nearer  to 
hand.  Upon  the  work  of  this  institution  and  of  institutions 
like  this  depends  entirely  the  question  whether  our  amazing 
material  resources,  our  ingenuity,  our  inventiveness,  our  sci- 
ence and  skill,  shall  prove  a  blessing  or  a  curse.  A  person 
or  a  community  may  find  the  disadvantage  of  possessing  so 
many  advantages.  We  may  be  ruined  by  our  prosperity. 
We  glory  in  the  best  equipment  which  skill  and  science  can 
devise;  but  there  is  not  one  thoughtful  person  here  who  has 
not  known  individuals  who  would  have  been  better  equipped 
for  their  work  if  they  had  not  been  equipped  so  well  I  One 
is  haunted  by  the  fear  that  in  our  day  and  country  we  are  not 
producing  results  commensurate  with  our  efforts.  In  pro- 
portion to  the  extraordinary  increase  of  our  resources,  are 
we  doing  the  good  in  the  world  we  ought  to  do?  In  the 
w^orld  of  art  and  science  are  we,  with  all  our  wealth  of  train- 
ing and  equipment,  doing  relatively  greater  work  and  better 
work  than,  let  us  say,  George  Stephenson,  the  inventor  of 
the  locomotive,  when  he  taught  himself  arithmetic  on  the 
sides  of  colliery  wagons,  or  Wilkie  when  he  learned  painting 
with  a  piece  of  chalk  and  a  barn  door,  or  West  when  he 
made  his  first  brushes  out  of  the  cat's  tail;  than  Watt,  the 
inventor  of  the  steam-engine,  when  he  made  his  first  model 
out  of  an  old  syringe;  Humphry  Davy,  of  safety-lamp 
fame,  when  he  extemporized  his  scientific  appliances  from 
kitchen  pots  and  pans;  and  Faraday,  described  by  Sir  Wil- 
liam Ramsay  last  Friday  as  one  of  the  most  brilliant  physi- 
cists and  most  daring  experimenters  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 

[254] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

tury,  when  he  made  his  from  glass  bottles;  or  better  work 
and  greater  than  when  Elihu  Burritt  mastered  eighteen  an- 
cient and  modern  languages  while  shoeing  horses  at  the  vil- 
lage forge? 

We  are  doing  better  and  greater  work,  you  are  confident. 
And  you  name  Mr.  Edison  and  Signor  Marconi.  But,  rela- 
tively to  the  wealth  of  our  resources,  is  the  result  all  it 
should  be? 

In  the  world  of  moral  effort  are  you  quite  so  confident? 
Stephen,  the  first  Christian  martyr,  John  Ruskin  reminds  us, 
did  not  get  bishop's  pay  for  that  long  sermon  of  his  to  the 
Pharisees.  He  only  got  stones.  And  Paul  had  no  cathedral 
called  by  his  name  from  which  to  preach  his  Gospel  to  the 
Roman  world.  When  Augustine  and  his  monks  landed  at 
Ebbsfleet  and  met  the  English  king  between  that  place  and 
Canterbury,  and  declared  the  good  news  of  Jesus  to  him, 
there  was  no  missionary  society  and  missionary  press  behind 
him.  When  the  famous  few  met  in  a  house  at  Kettering  to 
win  heathenism  for  Christ,  the  first  collection  was  sixty-six 
dollars.  Do  you  not  think  that  we  ought  to  do  vastly  more 
with  our  wealth  and  numbers  than  men  did  who  were  few 
and  poor?  Yet  are  we  in  the  way  of  accomplishing  more 
for  the  age  we  live  in  and  for  ages  to  come  than  Stephen  did 
for  the  Jewish  world,  Paul  for  the  Roman  world,  Augustine 
and  his  monks  for  the  English  world,  and  Fuller  Pearce  and 
Ryland  for  the  world  of  the  distant  East? 

We  are  not  gaining  all  we  ought  to  gain  from  the  re- 
sources that  are  ours.  Why?  We  leave  the  work  to  the 
machinery,  when  we  ought  to  do  it  ourselves.  This  nation 
has  developed  a  capacity  for  organization  which  is  as  un- 
mistakably an  inspiration  of  genius  as  the  sculpture  of  Phei- 
dias  or  the  philosophy  of  Plato.  The  art  of  the  Greek,  the 
law  of  the  Roman,  the  Hebrew  passion  for  righteousness, 


^« 


rr'^'^'^T^ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

the  genius  of  the  English  for  colonization,  is  not  more  char- 
acteristic nor  more  significant  in  the  evolution  of  the  race 
than  the  genius  of  the  American  people  for  organization. 
But  such  high  and  notable  qualities  have  their  natural  de- 
fects. In  this  country  we  first  make  the  machine,  and  then 
we  bow  down  and  worship  it.  We  kneel  and  say  our  prayer 
to  it:  ^^Almighty  and  everlasting  Machine,  we  beseech  thee 
to  roll  over  us,  crush  down  our  insurgent  will,  and  grind 
down  our  souls  to  a  pale  unanimity!"  But  neither  an  indi- 
vidual nor  a  nation  can  be  better  than  the  gods  it  worships. 
If  we  first  make  our  gods  and  then  worship  them,  we  end  by 
becoming  like  them.  We  worship  the  machine— and  we  be- 
come machines !  We  have  lived  to  see  the  apotheosis  of  the 
filing  cabinet.  When  Gambetta  was  praised  by  a  friend  for 
what  was  perhaps  the  greatest  speech  of  his  life  he  said, 
"For  seven  years  I  have  wanted  to  make  that  speech.  I 
have  had  it  here  (the  heart),  but  I  have  not  had  it  here  (the 
head)  1''  With  us,  he  would  only  have  had  to  look  under 
A  B  C,  or  perhaps  under  X  Y  Z,  and  he  would  have  found  it 
all  in  the  card  index! 

Our  religious  work  is  hag-ridden  by  this  superstition  of 
the  machine.  The  worst  speech  I  have  heard  in  more  than 
five  years  of  residence  in  this  country— always  excepting  my 
own,  but  those  I  forget— was  on  "The  Standardized 
Church."  Every  Church  was  to  be  raised  up  and  leveled 
down  and  sawn  off  lengthwise  and  chopped  across  and 
planed  superficially  to  a  standard  which  existed  in  the  ma- 
chine-made mind  of  the  standardizes  Somewhere  in  the 
broad  heavens,  he  seemed  to  think,  there  is  an  everlasting 
stencil,  and  with  every  sweep  of  the  cosmic  brush  a  million 
souls  are  produced,  all  made  to  measure!  The  gifted  or- 
ganizer wears  himself  to  a  shadow  in  his  determination  to 
standardize  the  world;  and  one  prays  for  him  the  cure  which 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

William  III,  king  of  England,  desired  for  the  victim  of  a 
contemporary  superstition.  He  was  the  last  king  of  Eng- 
land who  practised  what  was  known  as  "touching  for  the 
king's  evil."  When  kings  ruled  by  divine  right— what  Byron 
called  "the  right  divine  of  kings  to  govern  wrong"— it  was 
believed  that  the  touch  of  one  of  them  would  cure  a  certain 
disease.  They  brought  a  sick  man  to  bluff  William;  he  laid 
his  hand  on  the  sick  man's  head  and  said,  "May  the  Lord 
give  you  better  health  and  more  sense !"  But  we  go  on  dis- 
cussing methods— methods— methods!— methods  of  Sun- 
day-school work,  of  Church  work,  of  Missionary  work — the 
underlying  assumption  being  that  there  is  one  correct,  com- 
plete, absolute,  and  universal  method,  and  if  only  we  could 
find  it  the  work  would  get  done  of  itself!  I  sat  in  a  Mis- 
sionary Conference  where  godly  old  women  of  both  sexes 
discussed  "methods."  And  a  missionary  just  home  from  the 
Congo  whispered  to  me,  "I  have  been  flat  on  my  back  while 
a  naked  savage  about  six  feet  six  inches  high,  and  as  tall 
across,  had  his  foot  on  my  chest  and  his  spear  at  my  throat. 
What  sort  of  a  missionary  method  ought  I  to  have  used 
then?"  To  be  sure!  There  are  just  as  many  methods  as 
there  are  men  and  women.  There  are  just  as  many  good 
m.ethods  as  there  are  wise  and  good  men  and  women.  There 
are  just  as  many  bad  methods  as  there  are  foolish  and  lazy 
men  and  women ! 

Henry  Ward  Beecher  once  went  through  a  factory 
equipped  with  the  most  perfect  machines  produced  in  his 
day.  He  gazed  on  them  with  admiration,  and  after  a  long 
and  lingering  gaze  he  said,  "They  look  intelligent;  I  think 
they  ought  to  vote."  One  has  heard  something  somewhere 
about  the  machine  voting,  but  that  is  neither  here  nor  there ! 
A  machine  may  look  intelligent,  but  "intelligent"  is  precisely 
the  thing  which  it  is  not.     All  your  machinery  needs  intelli- 

1:257] 


■I 


.  'M 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

gent  men  and  women  to  work  it.  Organization  is  a  neces- 
sity; but  there  is  danger  even  in  a  necessity.  The  danger  is 
that  we  leave  the  organization  to  do  what  can  be  done  only 
by  a  living  spirit.  It  is  the  tendency  of  all  human  organiza- 
tions to  stifle  individuality.  Let  the  organization  follow  its 
own  tendency  and  it  droops  and  dies.  It  is  for  the  individual 
to  assert  himself  within  the  organization  and,  if  need  be, 
against  it.  By  so  doing  he  serves  its  interest  and  saves  its 
life.  Force  and  Fire  brought  the  organization  to  birth- 
Force  of  Will  and  Fire  of  Devotion.  By  Force  and  Fire 
alone  can  it  be  fed  and  nourished  into  vigorous  life— Force 
of  Character  and  Fire  of  Love.  The  organization  is  a  mag- 
nificent piece  of  machinery.  But  no  mechanical  means  at 
present  known  to  mortals  will  generate  energy  to  set  it  work- 
ing and  keep  it  going.  Human  heart-beats  must  supply  the 
driving  power.  The  Apostle  Paul  is  right:  we  are  waiting 
for  the  sons  of  God. 

"The  Rice  Institute  of  Liberal  and  Technical  Learning'' 
—is  it  so  the  name  of  our  institution  runs?  "Liberal  and 
Technical  Learning" :  what  I  have  lately  called  "Skill  of 
hand  and  sight  of  soul"— it  is  a  superb  challenge  to  brain 
and  heart.  It  was  expounded  yesterday  by  the  President  in 
a  speech  entirely  noble,  the  chaste  language  worthy  of  his 
lofty  theme.  I  will  not  go  over  the  ground  again,  and  do 
badly  what  Dr.  Lovett  did  so  well.  But  let  me  set  his  con- 
ception, v/hich  is  my  own,  in  the  light  of  religion,  and  test  it 
by  its  proved  capacity  to  satisfy  our  human  needs. 

In  the  world  of  moral  effort  we  meet  the  Idealist  whose 
sublime  head  strikes  the  stars— and  who  tramples  human 
hearts  beneath  his  feet.  He  lifts  up  his  eyes  above  the 
mountains,  and  he  does  not  know  of  any  healing  ministry  for 
the  devil-haunted  child  in  the  crowded  street.  The  Corn- 
law  rhymer  in  England  more  than  sixty  years  ago  described 

1:258] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

a  type  of  philanthropist  with  whom  our  generation  is  scarcely 
less  familiar: 


Their  noble  souls  have  telescopic  eyes 

Which  see  the  faintest  speck  of  distant  pain; 

JVhile  at  their  feet  a  world  of  agonies ^ 

Unseen^  unheard^  unheeded,  writhes  in  pain. 

With  better  intentions  and  purer  life,  the  Idealist  may  yet 
fritter  away  his  strength  in  endeavor  as  futile. 

But  in  the  world  of  moral  effort  we  still  meet  more  often 
the  person  who  thinks  himself  practical  and  takes  pride  from 
his  belief.  He  will  not  look  to  the  far-off  interest  of  tears; 
no,  not  he !  He  is  not  going  to  sow  the  seed  and  wait  for 
after  ages  to  reap  the  harvest.  He  tells  you  that  he  wants 
results.  He  wants  crops.  He  wants  to  get  there,  and  to  get 
there  quickly.  He  is  the  get-rich-quick  man  of  the  world  of 
altruism,  philanthropy,  and  reform.  If  he  is  called  to  preside 
over  the  councils  of  a  great  nation,  the  best  you  can  say  of 
him  is  that  he  is  an  extempore  statesman,  a  statesman  trying 
to  set  the  world  right  by  rule  of  thumb,  profoundly  ignorant 
of  the  nature  of  the  forces  with  which  he  is  playing,  and 
proudly  indifferent  to  the  age-long,  world-wide  consequences 
of  his  acts.  This  is  the  best  you  can  say  of  him  — If  you  are 
a  patient  and  sweet-natured  person;  but  if  you  are  not — 
why,  you  say  something  worse.  A  man  may  mean  well.  But 
men  and  institutions  and  nations  need  to  avoid  the  devil's 
short-cuts  to  a  desired  end. 

What  then?  The  Idealist  may  be  a  failure  and  the  prac- 
tical man  a  fool.  What  we  want  is  the  practical  man  who 
lives  by  the  power  of  the  ideal.  Often  he  has  to  work  al- 
most in  the  dark;  slowly  he  gropes  through  the  broadening 
dawn.     But  he  sees  the  light  and  whence  it  flows.     And  he 


ijfcl: 


^^f-i^iiJf^^,-mM»i'm^  fc  a<.fci«;^t. 


'"Jl..rv,vr'i.'«,*J?'U<t'<.»~»,«r»..*»»j^*_«- 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

knows  that  each  steady  step  is  toward  the  rising  sun.  He 
has  certain  principles.  They  may  be  few.  But  they  are  suffi- 
cient. They  are  clear-cut,  firm-rooted,  four-square  to  all  the 
winds  that  blow ;  and  they  are  safe.  He  knows,  as  the  world 
knows,  that  this  same  world  is  not  ready  to  apply  those  prin- 
ciples immediately  and  universally  to  the  whole  round  of 
human  conduct.  But  he  knows,  what  the  world  does  not, 
that  these  are  the  principles  by  which  alone  men  live,  and 
that  the  nations  which  will  not  adopt  them  God  sends  down 
to  destruction.  He,  too,  is  an  Idealist  of  the  purest  type ;  but 
he  will  labor  night  and  day  to  apply  his  principles  where  and 
when  he  can,  winning  from  the  unprincipled,  anarchic  world 
here  a  little,  there  a  little,  and  every  little  looking  to  the  one 
far-off  divine  event  to  which  the  whole  creation  moves.  Do 
you  tell  me  that  he  is  living  in  each  little  act,  each  little  step, 
each  little  gain  of  justice  upon  Injustice,  each  day's  work  well 
done?  I  tell  you.  No!  He  is  living  in  the  true,  the  good, 
and  the  beautiful.  He  sees  life,  and  sees  it  whole.  He  is 
living  in  the  march  of  deathless  generations.  He  is  living  in 
the  sweep  of  the  ages.  He  Is  living  In  the  triumph  of  Im- 
mortal principle.  He  may  tell  you,  with  his  rough  practical 
senses  alert  and  his  ear  to  the  ground,  that  he  has  only  to 
live  one  day  at  a  time;  but  he  knows,  though  he  keeps  the 
knowledge  to  himself,  that  really  and  truly  he  is  living  in 
eternity— living,  that  Is  to  say.  In  principles  older  than  proto- 
plasm, causes  that  complete  and  crown  the  centuries,  and 
movements  that  roll  back  the  tide  of  guilt  and  sin. 

Yesterday,  with  joy  and  deep  thanksgiving,  the  Rice  In- 
stitute was  dedicated  to  the  purpose  set  forth  In  Its  Found- 
er's win,  In  the  presence  of  those  whom  Dr.  van  Dyke  called 
the 

Honoured  and  z^elcome  quests  from  the  elder  nations, 
Princes  of  science  and  arts  and  letters. 

[2603 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Now  we,  the  people  of  Houston  and  of  Texas,  rise  and  sol- 
emnly link  ourselves  to  that  consecrating  act.  We  dedicate 
this  institution  to  the  advancement  of  Letters,  Science,  and 
Art,  to  the  service  of  the  imperial  commonwealth  of  Texas; 
to  the  material  and  moral  progress  of  the  Southland;  to  the 
cause  of  human  improvement  over  all  the  earth;  and  to  the 
greater  glory  of  God.  Upon  President  and  Trustees  and 
Faculty,  upon  other  great-hearted  men  and  women  who  shall 
bring  to  the  aid  of  this  institution,  now  and  in  the  coming 
days,  gifts  of  heart  and  brain  and  hand,  we  invoke  the  bene- 
diction of  the  Most  High.  And  earnestly  we  pray  that  in 
the  years  to  come  the  sons  and  daughters  of  the  Rice  Insti- 
tute may  bring  honor  to  its  name;  that  their  children  and 
their  children's  children  may  rise  up  to  call  it  blessed;  that 
they  may  show  themselves  to  be  the  Sons  of  God  for  whose 
coming  Creation  waits  and  longs,  co-operating  with  the 
world's  eternal  purposes  and  preparing  for  a  redeemed 
humanity  a  renovated  earth. 


1:260 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


Hymn-Nearer,  my  God, to  Thee 


'Ml  J  JIJ  JJ 


r 


P 


^S: 


.l.Near-er,   my     God,  to  Thoe,  Near-  er     to       Thee,   E'enthoughit 

-ft m ■       OO 


'■'V'i'  u  f  F I F  ^ 


m 


s: 


^^^ 


^ 


OO 


^ 


^ 


-<i5 


3 


^ 


be     a  crosSjTliat  rais-eth     me;      Still    all  my   song  shall  be,    Near- er,  my 


H 


E 


^^ 


E 


^m 


God.to 


Thee, 


-6^ 


f  P  '  F  F  r 


3 


XE 


-O- 


zzzz 


Near-er,  my     God, to   Thee,      Near-er    to     Thee.     A-men. 


2.  Though  like  a  wanderer^ 

Weary  and  lone, 
Darkness  comes  over  me. 

My  rest  a  stoae; 
Yet  in  my  dreams  Vd  be 
Nearer,  my  God, to  Thee, 
Nearer, my  God, to  Thee, 

Nearer  to  Thee. 

3.  There  let  my  way  appear 

Steps  unto  heaven; 
All  that  Thou   sendest  me 

In  mercy  given; 
Angels  to  beckon  me 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 
Nearer,  ray  God,  to  Thee, 

Nearer  to  Thee. 


4.  Then  with  my  waking  thoughts 
Bright  with  Thy  praise. 
Out  of  my  stony  griefs 

Altars  ril  raise; 
So  by  my  woes  to  be 
Nearer,  my  God, to  Tiiee, 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 
Nearer  to  Thee. 


5 


1:262] 


Or  if  on  joyful  wing, 

Cleaving  the   sky. 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  forgot. 

Upward  I  fly. 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be 
Nearer,  my  God, to  Thee, 
Nearer,  my  God, to  Thee, 
Nearer  to  Thee. 


Mrs.  Siirah  Adams,  1841 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


Hymn -America 


Carey 


j:    j  ?l    I  ^    J   P    I  J'    J    i   I  j    'M 


-€V^ 


-XT 


Our  fathers'  God!  to  Thee ,  Author  of      Ub  -  er  -  ty,     To  Thee  we     sing: 


&=& 


:e 


■^^ 


9^ 


I 


rr 


z: 


i 


f2 — » 


_ 9 5k 


i 


* 


t==t 


&± 


m 


i 


FF=g 


P 


yy='^    [^  ^ 


z: 


m 


U-        -6H 


9- 


X^ 


-o- 


3X 


li 


^ 


Long  may    our        land      be    bright    With    free-dom's        ho   -    ly     light; 


Pro-tect     us_      by    Thy  might,    Great      God,  our     King!        A  -  men. 


XI- 


-»- 


i 


2. Bless  Thou  our  native  land! 
Firm  may  she  ever  stand, 

Through  storm  and  night; 
When  the  wild  tempests  rave. 
Ruler  of  wind  and  wave. 
Do  Thou  our  country  save 
By  Thy  great  might. 

3.  For  her  our  prayer  shall  rise 
To  God,  above  the  skies; 

On  Him  we  wait; 
Thou  Who  art  ever  nigh, 
Guarding  with  watchful  eye, 
To  Thee  aloud  we  cry, 

God  save  the  state! 


Stanza  1,  Rev.  S.  F.  Smith,  1832- 
Stanza  2,  Rev.  C- T.  Brooks,  1835 
Stanza    3,  Rev.  J.  S.Dwight,  1844. 


n263  3 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


BENEDICTION 


Rev.  Charles  Frederic  Aked 

The  Lord  bless  you  and  keep  you;  the  Lord  cause  His 
face  to  shine  upon  you  and  be  gracious  unto  you;  the  Lord 
lift  up  upon  you  the  light  of  His  countenance  and  give  you 
peace.    Amen. 


[264: 


I 


COLUMBIA  UNIVERSITY 


0032190620 


\ 


'S'oZfy'Sl 


<■■■-%«/-%.  **^-. 


! 

> 

r     -*  ^ 

*■    ;" 

:  ! 

■V 

-     » 

',:t 


fc_«K_,.Tx  Tac  iM.^.m..:s  .■.!:.■!.  X  .  S  91 


.*:.*^J».,.«,:«»-.^«H»»--*»<if*«»J»2«2jltJlfc*^ 


to<s 


Cdiunbia  llutbtrsttp 


LIBRARY 


GIVEN   BY 


PUBLISHER 


' 


i 


t\ 


i 


i» 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

OCTOBER  TENTH,  ELEVENTH,  TWELFTH 

NINETEEN   HUNDRED 

AND    TWELVE 


Volume  Two 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE 
OPENING  OF 

THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


BEING  AN  ACCOUNT  IN  THREE  VOLUMES  OF  AN 
ACADEMIC  FESTIVAL  HELD  IN  CELEBRATION  OF 
THE  FORMAL  OPENING  OF  THE  RICE  INSTITUTE, 
A  UNIVERSITY  OF  LIBERAL  AND  TECHNICAL 
LEARNING  FOUNDED  IN  THE  CITY  OF  HOUSTON, 
TEXAS,  BY  WILLIAM  MARSH  RICE  AND  DEDICATED 
BY    HIM    TO    THE    ADVANCEMENT  OF  LETTERS, 

SCIENCE,  AND  ART 


Volume  II 


HOUSTON,  TEXAS 

U.  S.  A. 


«.. 


CONTENTS 


VOLUME      TWO 


OG  \  1^  3G> 


3 


>/  .  z. 


THE  INAUGURAL  LECTURES 

ON  THE  FUNDAMENTAL   SCIENCES,  THE  LIBERAL   HUMANITIES,  AND 
THE  ADVANCEMENT  OF  MODERN  LEARNING 

PAGE 

THE  PROBLEM  OF  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  HIS- 
TORY       265 

THE  THEORY  OF  CIVILIZATION 288 

THE  METHODS  OF  EXTENDING  CIVILIZATION 

AMONG  THE  NATIONS 321 

Three  inaugural  lectures  by  Professor  Rafael  Altamira  y 
Crevea,  late  Professor  of  the  History  of  Spanish  Law  in  the 
University  of  Oviedo,  Director  of  Elementary  Education  in 
the  Spanish  Ministry  of  Public  Instruction. 

MOLECULAR  THEORIES  AND  MATHEMATICS  .     347 

AGGREGATES  OF  ZERO  MEASURE 378 

MONOGENIC  UNIFORM  NON-ANALYTIC  FUNC- 
TIONS: THE  THEORIES  OF  CAUCHY,  WEIER- 
STRASS,  AND  RIEMANN 399 

Three  inaugural  lectures  by  Professor  Emile  Borel,  Di- 
rector of  scientific  studies  at  the  Ecole  Normale  and  Professor 
of  the  Theory  of  Functions  in  the  University  of  Paris. 


.  ;i,imau4J8 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  BREVIARY  OF  .ESTHETIC 

I.  ^'What  IS  Art?" 430 

II.  Prejudices  Relating  TO  Art  .      .      .      .      .      .      .  458 

III.  The  Place  of  Art  in  the  Spirit  and  in  Human 
Society 480 

IV.  Criticism  and  the  History  of  Art 499 

A  monograph  by  Senator  Benedetto  Croce,  Editor  of 
*Xa  Critica." 

MUTATIONS  IN  HEREDITY 518 

GEOGRAPHICAL  BOTANY 571 

MODERN  CYTOLOGICAL  PROBLEMS     ....     596 

THE  IDEALS  OF  AN  EXPERIMENT  GARDEN    .     .     615 

Four  inaugural  lectures  by  Professor  Hugo  de  Vries,  Direc- 
tor of  the  Hortus  Botanicus  and  Professor  of  Botany  in  the 
University  of  Amsterdam. 

PHILOSOPHICAL  LANDMARKS,  BEING  A  SURVEY 

OF  THE   RECENT   GAINS   AND   THE    PRESENT 

PROBLEMS  OF  REFLECTIVE  THOUGHT     ...     620 

Three  inaugural  lectures  by  Sir  Henry  Jones,  Professor  of 
Moral  Philosophy  in  the  University  of  Glasgow  and  Hibbert 
Lecturer  on  Metaphysics  at  Manchester  College,  Oxford. 


[vi] 


LIST  OF  INSERTS 


VOLUME      TWO 


Photogravures  of 

Rafael  Altamira  y  Crevea /^"'"^  P^^' 

n  it 

Emile  Borel 

Benedetto  Croce 

tt         it 
Hugo  de  Vries 

Henry  Jones 


265 

347 
430 
518 
620 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  BREVIARY  OF  iESTHETIC 

I.  'What  IS  Art?" 430 

II.  Prejudices  Relating  TO  Art  .     .     .     .     .     .     .     458 

III.  The  Place  of  Art  in  the  Spirit  and  in  Human 
Society 480 

IV.  Criticism  and  the  History  of  Art 499 

A  monograph  by  Senator  Benedetto  Croce,  Editor  of 
"La  Critica." 

MUTATIONS  IN  HEREDITY 518 

GEOGRAPHICAL  BOTANY 571 

MODERN  CYTOLOGICAL  PROBLEMS      ....     596 

THE  IDEALS  OF  AN  EXPERIMENT  GARDEN    .     .     615 

Four  inaugural  lectures  by  Professor  Hugo  de  Vries,  Direc- 
tor of  the  Hortus  Botanicus  and  Professor  of  Botany  in  the 
University  of  Amsterdam. 

PHILOSOPHICAL  LANDMARKS,  BEING  A  SURVEY 
OF  THE  RECENT  GAINS  AND  THE  PRESENT 
PROBLEMS  OF  REFLECTIVE  THOUGHT    ...     620 

Three  inaugural  lectures  by  Sir  Henry  Jones,  Professor  of 
Moral  Philosophy  in  the  University  of  Glasgow^  and  Hibbert 
Lecturer  on  Metaphysics  at  Manchester  College,  Oxford. 


'i 


m 


list  of  inserts 


VOLUME      TWO 


"4: 


»*1 


Photogravures  of 

Rafael  Altamira  y  Crevea /«"*«^  P''^^ 

Emile  Borel 

Benedetto  Croce 

Hugo  de  Vries 

«         « 
Henry  Jones 


265 

347 
430 
518 
620 


1 


Cv-i] 


f 


t 


^^^m 


THE  INAUGURAL  LECTURES 


"^  i 


T 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  THE  PHILOSOPHY 

OF  HISTORY 

THE  THEORY  OF  CIVILIZATION 

THE  METHODS  OF  EXTENDING  CIVILI 
ZATION  AMONG  THE  NATIONS' 


First  Lecture 
THE  PROBLEM  OF  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  HISTORY 

IN  all  the  dominions  of  science,  and  especially  in  those  re- 
lating to  the  human  subject  and  dealing  with  first  prin- 
ciples, there  are  questions-I  will  not  say  of  eternal  standing 
and  controversy  (because  to  say  "eternal"  is  to  anticipate  an 
issue  of  which,  in  view  of  the  future's  uncertainty,  we  are  not 
authorized  to  speak),  but  indeterminate  questions  which 
from  the  beginning  of  the  known  history  of  scientific  thought 
down  to  the  present  have  been  treated  by  the  different 
schools  of  thinkers  very  differently.  Seen  thus  through  the 
medley  of  systems  and  opinions,  these  questions  give  the  im- 
pression of  something  which  is  insoluble  and  by  all  our  pro- 
cesses of  knowledge  unattainable,  something  in  regard  to 
which  it  is  useless  to  devote  time  and  energy,  since  the  solu- 
tion arrived  at  will  not  give  universal  satisfaction,  a  sign 
that  it  is  not  truly  scientific,— and  in  this,  indeed,  is  explained 
the  position  of  those  individuals  (by  no  means  few  in  num- 
ber) who,  intent  on  the  scientific  requirements  of  precision 

1  Three  lectures  presented  at  the  inauguration  of  the  Rice  Institute,  by 
Professor  Rafael  Altamira,  late  Professor  of  the  History  of  Spanish  Law  m 
The  University  of  Oviedo,  Director  of  Elementary  Education  m  the  Spanish 
Ministry  of  Public  Instruction. 

1:2653 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

and  exactitude,  exclude  such  problems  from  the  sphere  of 
science  and  disdain  and  abandon  their  investigation. 

In  spite  of  such  exclusion,  the  thinking  classes  of  humanity 
(which  are  not  limited  to  the  professional  scientists)  persist 
In  stating  these  problems  and  in  asking  questions  relating  to 
them  or  derived  from  them.     These  inquiries  demonstrate 
that  the  problems  themselves  are  a  part  of  an  inherent  and 
natural  curiosity  within  us,  and  are  a  necessity  inseparable 
from  the  human  spirit— at  least  as  it  has  been  constituted  up 
to  the  present.    We  can  say  no  more  than  this,  for  it  should 
not  be  forgotten  that  all  our  observations  regarding  our  own 
nature  are  based  on  what  has  emanated  from  a  period  of 
human  life  which  may  seem  long,  but  which  is  short  when 
considered  in  comparison  with  what  that  life  may  be  pro- 
longed to  in  the  future.     Our  hypothesis,  given  the  present 
nature  of  our  intelligence,  can  never,  however  fecund  the 
imagination,  exceed  the  finite  number  of  occurrences  which 
embraces  the  known  reality.    As  this  limitation  to  actual  ex- 
perience is  common  to  all  the  orders  of  our  reason,  it  Is  clear 
that  we  are  obliged  always  to  work  upon  the  basis  of  our 
mind  as  it  now  is  and  has  for  some  time  presumably  to  con- 
tinue. 

The  curiosity  which  belongs  to  our  minds  as  to-day  consti- 
tuted, then,  inevitably  causes  at  one  time  or  another  the  same 
questions  to  be  raised,  and  Impels  even  the  professional 
scientists  to  formulate  them,  notwithstanding  the  futility  of 
previous  efforts.  But  If  all  this  Is  certain.  It  Is  not  less  so 
that  some  of  them,  although  lacking  solutions  unanimously 
accepted,  begin  to  show,  amid  the  medley  of  opinions  in 
regard  to  them,  a  certain  general  orientation  or  certain 
points  of  common  acquiescence  which  signify  their  advance 
toward  a  more  scientific  basis,  a  surer  and  more  satisfactory 
ground  than  that  hitherto  occupied.    It  is  this  which  Is  occur- 

[266] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

ring  with  the  question  of  the  Philosophy  of  History,  and  to 
signalize  and  determine  In  regard  to  this  question  that  gen- 
eral orientation  and  those  points  of  acquiescence  seems  to 
me  a  service  that  would  be  of  Indisputable  utility. 

It  will  be  useful.  In  the  first  place,  as  a  basis  of  future  In- 
vestigation, as  a  basis  of  real  progress  on  the  road  to  a  solu- 
tion,—on  a  road  which  Is,  properly  speaking,  scientific,— 
since  progress  In  the  knowledge  of  things  depends  on  the 
clarity  and  security  of  what  has  already  been  established. 
But  It  win  also  be  useful  for  another  reason,  a  consideration 
of  a  social  character  which  professionals  are  In  the  habit  of 
overlooking.     I  refer  to  the  Influence  exerted  by  their  doc- 
trines on  the  masses  among  whom  these  doctrines  become 
translated  into  lines  of  opinion  and  of  conduct.    For  a  scien- 
tist that  which  alone  Is  of  importance  and  alone  Is  worthy  of 
attention  Is  the  truth  or  the  error  of  a  theory,  and  from 
this  standpoint  he  may,  and  does,  neglect  all  theories  which 
appear  to  him  untrue,   discarding  them   from  that  which 
merits   his   attention.      Thus,   In   the    Philosophy   of   His- 
tory a  providentialist  will  reject  and  disqualify  the  doctrines 
of  a  rationalist  or  those  of  a  positivist,  and  vice  versa,  but 
neither  one  nor  the  other  will  be  able  to  prevent  these  con- 
flicting doctrines  from  influencing  large  numbers  of  people 
and  guiding  them  in  not  a  few  questions  of  their  lives.    With 
equal  reason  the  contrary  positions  of  those  who  admit  a 
Philosophy  of  History  and  those  who  deny  such  a  thing 
collide  with  and  annul  one  another,  but  both  are  powerless 
before  the  fact  that  many  people  will  accept  one  position  or 
the  other;  and  as,  in  the  long  run,  that  which  matters  is  that 
which  Influences  the  masses,  the  conflicting  theories  which 
claim  the  solution  of  these  indecisive  questions  come  to  pos- 
sess for  the  sociologist,  for  the  practical  man,  and  for  the 
historian  himself  a  value  which  Is  at  best  only  equally  pro- 

[^673 


^v».-*  -■-,- 


-jt^ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 
portioned  to  the  scope  of  their  diffusion  and  to  the  force  of 
the  conviction  they  produce.    All,  then,  which  may  tend  to 
eliminate  divergences,  discover  points  of  contact,  or,  better 
expressing  it,  to  intensify  in  the  public  mind  the  consciousness 
of  common  affirmations  in  what  has  arisen  from  distinct 
starting-points  and  systems,-affirmations  which  have  not, 
perhaps,  been  realized  by  the  majority,-is  preparing  the 
way  for  an  ever  greater  homogeneity  in  thought  and  action. 
Now,  of  late  years,  in  the  sphere  of  the  Philosophy  of 
History,  owing  to  the  discussions  which  the  actual  statement 
and  formulation  of  the  question  has  produced,  there  has 
been  a  fairly  concrete  determination  of  factors  and  a  clarifi- 
cation of  ideas  relating  to  the  subject.     Neither  movement 
has  descended  to  the  great  sphere  of  those  who  are  non- 
specialist  but  cultured  sufficiently  to  produce  in  it  a  favorable 
change  of  the  same  character;  but  this  same  lack  of  corre- 
spondence between  the  scientific  position  up  to  date  and  the 
sediment  of  antiquated  and   already  scientifically   rectified 
ideas  which  have  passed  down  into  the  masses  as  accepted 
knowledge  renders  all  the  more  necessary  that  labor  of  diffu- 
sion whose  first  effect  has  to  be  the  clear  determining  and 
sizing  up  of  fundamental  opinions  and  authorities.    The  ne- 
cessity is  all  the  greater  in  so  far  as  one  may  consider  in- 
cluded in  the  masses  the  large  number  of  persons  whom,  at 
first  sight,  we  should  qualify  as  cultured,  persons  who  have 
obtained  university  degrees  and  who  undoubtedly  possess 
wide  information  and  clear  intelligence.    Thus,  I  have  heard 
my  book  "The  History  of  Spain  and  the  Spanish  Civiliza- 
tion" described  as  a  work  of  historical  philosophy,  although 
it  is  simple  and  unmistakable  narrative,  simply  because  it 
contains,  with  the  usual  chapters  on  political  history,  others 
on  what  has  been  called  Kultiirgeschichte,  or  internal  his- 
tory. 

[268] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 
This  very  common  error  signifies  not  just  a  vagueness  in 
the  conception  of  the  Philosophy  of  History   (vagueness 
there  is  as  well,  and  in  due  course  we  shall  examine  it),  but 
an  absolute  disorientation  in  which  it  is  impossible  to  form 
any  argument  whatever  or  even  make  one's  self  intelligible 
to  those  laboring  in  the  fallacy,  for  the  simple  reason  that 
while    employing   the   same   name,    they   imply   something 
wholly  different.    Let  us  begin,  then,  by  rectifying  this  error, 
that  it  may  once  and  for  all  be  deleted  from  the  public  mind. 
Every  history-book  is  pure  narrative  if  it  limits  itself  to  re- 
lating  facts.     Although  it  may  embrace  in  entirety  every 
sphere  in  the  whole  life  of  a  state,  including  the  history  of 
its  thought  in  the  various  orders  of  the  sciences  and  in  those 
treating  of  human  questions,  it  is  not  a  book  of  Philosophy 
of  History.     It  may  be  the  work  of  an  historian  who  does 
not  believe  that  science  possible  or  regards  it  as  dissevered 
from  his  professional  mission:  his  ideas  in  this  respect  will 
not  in  the  least  have  been  invalidated. 

Equally  common  with  this  error,  and  perhaps  more  so, 
there  is  another  one  more  difficult  of  eradication  and  of 
graver  consequences  for  the  reason  that  it  comes  near,  ap- 
parently, to  the  actual  field  of  philosophy  itself  instead  of 
being  plainly  and  at  a  glance  outside  of  it.    This  is  the  error 
in  which,   in  the   name   of  philosophy,   Is   inferred  every 
generalization  regarding  historical  facts.    To  those  laboring 
in  this  error  everything  of  a  general  character  that  may  be 
gleaned  from  an  individual  history  of  concrete  facts-the 
character  of  an  institution  in  a  given  epoch,  the  dominant 
and  central  current  in  a  series  of  events,  the  distinctive  feat- 
ure of  the  history  of  a  state,  the  trajectory  and  orientation  of 
an  order  of  ideas-is  Philosophy  of  History.    But  as,  apart 
from  such  works  of  erudition  as  are  purely  concrete  and 
monographic,  every  historian  must  generalize  without  de- 

1:^69] 


i'^^-ij^-*  ^      «-,.   '-I. 


■    :     rJ^ 


,      ,-,       *>■      »  T^y. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

parting  from  his  own  material  of  facts,  it  may  be  deduced, 
according  to  this  criterion,  that  there  will  scarcely  be  a  his- 
tory-book  which  is  not  philosophical.  A  book  which  sum- 
marizes  in  a  great  compendium,  a  great  "synthesis,"  as  it  is 
commonly  but  erroneously  expressed,  the  facts  of  a  period, 
of  an  age,  or  of  a  state,  and  popular  lectures  which  epitomize 
the  great  results  of  detailed  investigation,  would  be  Philos- 
ophy of  History  when,  in  general,  they  are  rigorously  limited 
to  the  field  of  what  is  narrative— that  is  to  say,  purely  his- 
torical. The  celebrated  lectures,  for  example,  on  the  "His- 
tory of  Civilization  in  Europe,"  by  Guizot,  do  not  in  any 
way  possess  the  philosophical  character,  although  their 
eloquent  expression  and  the  reflections  and  opinions  often 
to  be  found  in  them  which  do  not  cover  a  ground  that 
is,  properly  speaking,  historical,  added,  moreover,  to  the  lax 
and  careless  criticism  of  contemporaries  to  whom  all  this 
justly  came  as  something  new,  led  to  the  lectures  being  desig- 
nated by  many  as  philosophical.  Generally  speaking,  one 
may  afiirm,  on  the  contrary,  that  every  generalization  about 
facts,  while  it  remains  a  generalization,  and  however  ab- 
stract be  its  character,  is  not  philosophical.  What  always 
result  from  it  are  facts,  very  general,  very  comprehensive, 
but,  in  the  end  and  in  the  long  run,  facts.  Laws  themselves, 
or  the  course  they  follow  in  a  more  or  less  extended  period, 
are  likewise  facts,  although  of  an  abstract  character.  They 
express  what  is  the  line  and  orientation  of  individual  hap- 
penings; they  do  not  explain  them  philosophically  or,  to  be 
more  precise,  metaphysically, 

I  have  now  just  enunciated  what,  in  my  opinion,  is  a  basal 
quality  in  the  Philosophy  of  History;  but,  to  avoid  confu- 
sion, it  will  be  necessary  to  define  it.  Every  explanation  of 
facts  is  not  a  philosophic  explanation.  Naturally  it  is  not  so 
w^hen  it  treats  of  causes  which  are  directly  or  indirectly  his- 

[270] 


i 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

torical— that  is  to  say,  determines  temporal  origins  and 
precedents,  the  factors  behind  an  appearance  and  effect,  the 
necessity  of  a  phenomenon  in  a  given  moment.  No  one  will 
describe  as  philosophical  the  explanation  of  the  collapse  of 
the  Invincible  Armada,  an  explanation  which  is  entirely  con- 
fined to  the  most  concrete  facts  and  as  historical  as  any  in  the 
world;  nevertheless  many  other  analogous  explanations  of 
greater  or  less  significance  than  the  above  are  still  described 
with  manifest  equivocation  as  philosophical.  The  explana- 
tion of  the  Hellenic  genius  and  culture  as  a  consequence  of 
oriental  origins,  of  such  and  such  Influences  derived  from  the 
geographical  situation  of  that  people,  is  equally  not  of  a 
philosophic  character.  All  such  explanation  moves  entirely 
amid  temporal  causes  and  on  a  ground  which  is  purely  his- 
torical, however  vast  and  general  Its  embrace  of  the  concrete 
facts  and  data.  For  the  explanation  to  assume  a  philosophic 
character  It  must  treat  not  of  temporal  but  of  permanent 
causes  and  must  Inclose  facts  in  a  metaphysical  impulsion  and 
causality  outside  of  the  field  of  history.  It  is  not  without 
purpose  that  the  science  under  consideration  Is  called  Phi- 
losophy of  History  (of  human  history.  It  is  clear),  which 
means  that  it  is  a  philosophic  science  and  ought  to  be  treated 
according  to  Its  nature  and  not  on  historical  lines.  The 
antagonism  between  the  Philosophy  of  History  and  the  His- 
tory of  Philosophy,  which  has  been  shown  and  explained  by 
certain  schools  of  thinkers,  defines  thoroughly  the  distinctive 
character  of  each  of  these  sciences,  notwithstanding  that  the 
terms  employed  in  them  are  identical:  the  different  relative 
position  of  both  terms  In  each  of  the  two  cases  signalizes 
plainly  the  opposition  in  question. 

It  is  necessary,  then,  to  abandon  all  false  conceptions  of 
the  science  concerned  with  these  reflections  in  order  to  place 
ourselves  In  the  actual  field  with  which  it  corresponds.    Once 

1:271] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

settled  there,  the  discussion  of  the  problems  belonging  to  this 
science  becomes  disentangled  because  we  know  now  the  value 
of  the  words  employed  and  are  no  longer  in  the  plight  of 
discussing  indefinitely  and  without  understanding  one  an- 
other two  things  which  have  nothing  else  in  common  but  the 
name  we  give  them,  a  name  which  is  applicable  only  to  one. 

With  this  point  settled,  it  is  now  possible  to  propound  the 
first  question  of  the  Philosophy  of  History,  which  is  precisely 
that  now  most  under  discussion  in  our  times- to  wit,  the  pos- 
sibility of  the  science  in  question.  In  any  case  this  would 
have  to  be  the  first  question  to  be  discussed  and  to  be  solved; 
for,  what  would  be  the  use  of  fantastically  pursuing  the  prin- 
ciples of  a  science  devoid  of  all  reality-that  is  to  say,  impos- 
sible?  We  should  be  involved  in  a  labor  that  is  not  only 
useless  but  pernicious,  through  the  false  ideas  that  would  be 

disseminated. 

Before  examining  this  question  and  expressing  in  regard 
to  it,  if  necessary,  a  personal  opinion,  it  is  important  to  sepa- 
rate it  from  another  which  is  often  confounded  with  it,  the 
one  prejudging  the  other  with  its  own  solution.     It  is  one 
thing  to  question  the  possibility  of  a  Philosophy  of  History, 
be  what  it  may  the  field  of  science  in  which  it  is  established, 
and  it  is  another  thing  to  inquire  if  historians  as  such  are 
capable  of  creating  it,  or  even  merely  if  its  existence  concerns 
or  ought  to  concern  them.     The  distinction  between  these 
two  questions  is  all  the  more  necessary  in  so  far  as  many 
treatises  have  dealt  only  with  the  second  of  the  two,  and 
presumed,  in  the  solution  of  it,  to  have  solved  the  first  and 
fundamental  question.     In  reality,  the  second  question,  as 
It  is  commonly  propounded,  is  beside  the  point.     If  the 
Philosophy  of  History,  given  that  It  Is  possible,  is  a  philo- 
sophic and  not  an  historical  science,  it  clearly  follows  that  it 
devolves  not  on  the  historian  but  on  the  philosopher  to  for- 

[272] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 
mulate  and  clarify  it.    It  is  legitimate  and  comprehensible  on 
the  part  of  the  historian  to  declare  himself  as  such  incompe- 
tent; to  refuse  to  employ  his  energies  in  the  investigation 
of  an  aspect  of  human  history  which  does  not  concern  him; 
and  to  demand  the  requisite  time  and  energy  for  what  does. 
For  this  reason  it  is  a  strong  position  which  has  been  adopted 
by  those  who,  under  the  title  of  historians,  refuse  to  busy 
themselves  with  that  problem,  and  even  regard  it  as  per- 
nicious that  it  should  be  mixed  with  those  peculiar  to  history; 
basing  their  opinion  either  on  the  supposition  that  the  char- 
acter  of   historical   knowledge    fundamentally   prohibits   a 
philosophical  explanation,  or  on  the  supposition  that  the 
actual  position  of  historical  science  does  not  as  yet  authorize 
it.i     Observe,  however,  that  the  majority  of  those  of  this 
opinion  admit  that  outside  the  sphere  of  history,  in  the  field 
of  other  science,  the  problem  is  legitimate  and  is  one  that 
may  be  formulated  and  considered.    If  he  wishes  to  abide  in 
his  own  sphere,  it  is  not  the  professional  historian  who  will 
study  it,  but  of  the  results  of  the  investigations  which  others 
have  accomplished  he  will  be  able  to  take  advantage.^ 

It  is  clear  of  course  that  this  does  not  exclude  a  historian 
from  studying  the  Philosophy  of  History,  just  as  he  may  be 
interested  in  astronomy  or  any  other  science,  nor  can  It  be 
denied  that  in  the  fact  of  his  being  a  historian  his  prepara- 
tion In  the  study  of  the  problem  is  the  more  adequate  for  a 
deep  penetration  into  a  given  one  of  its  aspects.^    The  natu- 

1  An  exposition  of  the  situation  of  that  question  to  date  is  to  be  found  in 
my  tok  '"tions  of  Modern  History"   (Madrid,   1904),  Introduction  and 

^^/5ne'of"the  scientific  weaknesses  in  many  authorities  on  the  PhHosophy  of 

History  who  would  be  styled  classical-and  even  of  not  a  few  mode  n  ph  - 

^sophers-consists   in  their   not  being  or   not  havmg  been   sufficiently  At.- 

S     that  they  do  not  see  the  problem  in  its  essential  historical  per  pec- 

ive     and  that  they  have  failed  to  fulfil  that  exigency  which  Dilthey  (  Em- 

es^'n^ni  de  Gentenvissenschaften'')  formulated,  saying:    'The  thinker  who 

akes  fs  his  obkct  the  historical  world,  ought  to  be  intimately  acquainted  with 

tht  immediate  material  of  history  and  should  be  entirely  the  master  of  his 

medium." 


« 


THE  RICE  IiNSTITUTE 

ral  supposition,  in  fact,  is  that  it  will  be  the  historian  who 
will  be  interested  in  that  problem  because  the  constant  vision 
of  the  historical  material  will  continually  produce  in  him  a 
desire  for  an  explanation  transcending  the  mere  facts  them- 
selves; and,  in  any  case,  as  a  man  of  intelligence  he  will  be 
brought  up  against  the  problem,  though  he  may  not  embark 
on  the  solution  of  it.  Nor,  moreover,  in  the  preceding  affir- 
mations relative  to  the  independence  of  position  between 
the  scientific  sphere  and  the  philosophical  is  there  any  denial 
of  the  intimate  bond  which  unites  them,  and  in  virtue 
of  which  not  only  does  the  philosopher  require,  as  was  said, 
to  be  master  of  historical  matter,  but  the  historian  will  find 
in  philosophy  a  force  which,  although  it  is  not  his  business  to 
create  it,  will  help  him  in  the  handling  of  his  data. 

Now,  it  is  quite  another  thing  to  state  the  objection  in 
regard  to  a  Philosophy  of  History  to  the  philosophers  them- 
selves, basing  one's  position  on  the  present  status  of  our 
knowledge  of  the  history  of  mankind.  Such  an  objection- 
distinct  from  that  embodied  in  this  argument  against  the  pos- 
sibility merely  of  the  ''historians''  creating  a  Philosophy  of 
History— may  be  based  on  an  affirmation  of  that  strict  inter- 
dependence in  which,  we  affirm,  both  terms  are  to  be  found. 
Kohlen  has  expressed  it  in  a  decisive  manner  with  reference 
to  the  Philosophy  of  Law:  "Without  a  universal  history  of 
law  a  true  juridic  philosophy  is  as  impossible  as  is  a  philos- 
ophy of  humanity  without  a  similar  history  of  mankind  and 
a  philosophy  of  language  without  linguistics."  This,  then, 
denies  for  all  men  the  possibility  of  a  Philosophy  of  History, 
although  only  so  long  as  it  fails  to  fulfil  that  fundamental 
requisite  of  previous  acquaintance  with  the  facts  in  all  the 
amplitude  necessary  that  it  may  be  possible  to  philosophize 
about  them;  and,  to  my  mind,  this  is  the  strongest  objection 

1:274] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

that  can  be  opposed  to  the  present  possibility  of  a  Philosophy 

of  History. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  only  by  the  force  of  habit  and  the 
suggestion  exerted  by  those  books  (that  is  to  say,  the  doc- 
trines elaborated  in  them  and  the  systems  formulated,  which 
give  the  false  appearance  of  something  perfect  and  conclu- 
sive) that  we  say  and  even  believe  that  we  are  acquainted 
with  the  History  of  Humanity.     Certain  it  is  that  consider- 
able in  range  as  is  our  historical  information,  and  although 
that  information  has  augmented  so  vastly  in  one  century  in 
regard  to  the  above  branch  of  history  in  particular,  and 
become  perfected  in  certitude  and  thoroughness,  there  still 
remains  much  for  us  to  learn,  still  many  points  of  obscurity 
and  vagueness,  many  facts  and  theories  in  suspense;  and  that 
on  a  basis  so  imperfect  any  philosophic  structure  will  be 
flimsy,  collapsing  at  the  least  pressure.     For,  if  we  do  not 
possess  our  facts  securely  and  in  entirety,  how  can  we  build 
upon  them  anything  stable  or  secure?    To  the  immense  force 
embodied  in  this  argument  is  due  the  most  useful  and  fruitful 
of  the  results  which  modern  criticism  has  produced  in  the 
discussion  of  the  problem  now  before  us.     By  dint  of  this 
argument  has  been  demonstrated  the  inconsistency  between 
systems  relating  to  the  Philosophy  of  History  constructed  a 
priori  by  writers  who,  in  not  a  few  cases,  are  ranked  among 
the  great.    This  failure  was  merited,  as  merited  is  the  smile 
with  which,  to-day,  we  regard,  for  example,  that  infantile 
endeavor  to  inwrap  the  history  of  mankind  in  periods  or 
ages  of  development  which  limited  the  future  and  closed  up 
the  eternity  of  life.     In  drawing  up  a  clear  table  of  all  in 
these  systems  which  was  warrantable  and  final,  the  criticism 
of  the  professional  historians  has  constituted  a  service  to 
science  of  immense  value,  clearing  the  road  so  that  it  should 
be  unobstructed  by  pseudo-scientific— though  some  of  them 


"m 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

colossal— structures  which  would  render  it  difficult  to  make 
the  labor  of  the  future  step  by  step  and  in  certainty.  It  is 
true,  however,  that  it  has  produced  also  a  pernicious  skep- 
ticism in  many  people  who,  with  the  precipitancy  so  natural 
and  difficult  to  check  in  human  nature  when  a  definite  conclu- 
sion is  arrived  at  and  a  judgment  passed,  have  confused  the 
breakdown  of  the  Philosophy  of  History  as  interpreted  by 
certain  authors  with  the  total  collapse  of  the  whole  science. 
To  convince  the  public  of  the  error  of  assuming  the  second 
issue  as  a  consequence  of  the  first  is  in  fact  one  of  the  duties 
of  men  of  science  in  the  social  aspect  of  their  labor. 

Let  us  return  now  to  the  starting-point  of  these  considera- 
tions.    To  deny  the  present  possibility  of  a  Philosophy  of 
History  because  we  do  not  as  yet  know  enough  of  the  history 
of  mankind  is  not  to  deny  its  possibility  absolutely  and  for- 
ever; agreed,  however,  on  this  point,  the  affirmation  which 
has  led  us  to  it  reappears  and  confronts  us.    We  are  still  at 
grips  with  the  fundamental  problem.  In  short,  if  it  is  proved 
that  it  is  definitely  impossible  for  us  to  arrive  at  that  initial 
historical  knowledge  which  has  to  be  the  basis  of  a  scientific 
philosophy  regarding  it,  or  if  it  is  true,  as  many  believe,  that 
historical  knowledge  is  incapable  of  scientific  qualities  and 
even  of  precision  and  of  certitude,  then  to  philosophize  about 
it  will  be  eternally  impossible.     The  problem,  therefore,  is 
transferred  to  another  ground  and  obliges  us  to  discuss  pre- 
viously all  those  questions  alluded  to,  and  which  in  our  days 
cover,  as  is  known,  an  extensive  literature.     From  the  dis- 
cussion as  to  the  degree  of  generalization  which  is  possible 
in  regard  to  facts  about  humanity  (a  discussion  maintained 
on  the  extreme  wing  by  Xenopol,  who  denied  that  there 
could  be  any  generalization),  to  the  transference  of  history 
wholly  and  solely  into  the  field  of  science,  the  series  of  minor 
problems  presented  in  the  different  opinions  upheld  by  the 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 
specialists  to-day  require  to  be  tackled  and  cleared  up  in 
order  that  we  may  either  be  free  of  all  incubus  in  the  affirma- 
tion of  a  Philosophy  of  History  or  else  abandon  the  dream 
of  its  possibility.    It  would  be  long  and  wearisome  here  and 
now  to  enter  on  this  task  which  I  have  already  elsewhere 
accomplished.!     j  ^in  refer  only  to  the  conclusion  I  there 
arrived  at,  and  take  my  stand  upon  it  under  the  plea  of  a 
personal  opinion.     The  doctrine  may  be  thus  epitomized: 
In  the  present  situation  of  our  knowledge  relating  to  these 
questions,  and  of  the  opinion  of  men  of  science  respecting 
them,  there  is  a  decided  weakness  to  be  observed  in  the  ar- 
guments  employed   to   deny   the   scientific   character    (the 
possibility  of  such)  in  history,  either  because  the  general  con- 
ception of  science  renders  it  possible  to-day  to  state  the  prob- 
lem with  a  different  meaning  to  that  of  Aristotle,  or  because 
it  is  not  so  certain  as  is  commonly  believed  that  history  is 
confined  purely  to  the  observation  of  individual  facts,  form- 
ing itself  into  a  narrative  without  any  generalization  (of  a 
more  or  less  abstract  character,  that  is,  as  all  generalizations 
are),  in  which  each  fact  conserves  its  unique  and  differential 
characteristic  and  only  on  the  strength  of  it  is  mentioned. 
For  myself,  personally,  however,  the  crux  of  the  problem  is 
not  in  whether  historical  knowledge  conforms  or  not  to  the 
Aristotelian  definition  of  science,  and  whether  it  is  suscep- 
tible to  abstractions  of  greater  or  less  amplitude,  but  in 
whether  it  can  attain  those  qualities  of  truth,  clearness  and 
certainty  which  distinguish  scientific  from  vulgar  knowledge. 
If  to  the  scheme  and  elaboration  of  true,  evident  and  certain 
knowledge  which  has  as  its  objective  the  facts  about  human- 
ity in  time  and  space   (and  derives  from  that  objective  its 
own   internal   coherence)    is  begrudged  the   denomination 

1  In  the  book  mentioned  previously,  "Questions  of  Modern  History,"  Chap- 
ter III,  No.  3. 

1:277: 


■# 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

^'scientific/'  the  question  at  issue  is  solely  the  question  of  a 
name.  What  matters  is  that  our  knowledge  of  man  and  of 
the  manifestations  of  society  in  past  ages  shall  arrive,  by 
means  of  a  rigorous  employment  of  the  critical  methods  of 
investigation,  at  being  as  certain  as  our  knowledge  about 
Nature  and  the  facts  concerning  her,  though  neither  one  nor 
the  other,  either  to  the  observer  or  to  the  experimentalist, 
delivers  the  totality  of  its  abundant  and  (from  day  to  day  at 
least)  mysterious  contents. 

The  objection,  then,  which,  if  valid,  would  make  it  impos- 
sible forever,  through  lack  of  a  foundation,  to  philosophize 
about  the  history  of  mankind,  possesses  no  scientific  author- 
ity for  opposing  an  insuperable  barrier  to  this  philosophic 
aspiration;  but  it  does  serve  most  effectively  to  moderate 
impatience  and  to  check  precipitancy  in  the  task  of  solving 
the  main  problem,  showing  the  connection  between  this 
problem  and  many  questions  of  importance  still  under  dis- 
cussion, revealing  also  its  complexity  and  suggesting  that 
even  on  the  strong  basis  of  a  personal  conviction  rooted  in 
the  feeling  that  a  right  solution  is  arrived  at,  we  are  to  pre- 
serve the  judicious  cautiousness  which  is  characteristic  of  the 
truly  scientific  mind,  and  which  safeguards  against  the  pos- 
sibility of  error  and  makes  us  respectful  toward  contrary 
opinions.  All  that  may  avoid  that  suspicious  simplification 
of  a  problem  in  easy  terms— only  subjectively  arrived  at 
while  the  problem  itself  is  divested  of  many  elements  in- 
herent in  its  complexity  and  which  we  fancifully  qualify  as 
incidental— and  that  provides  us  with  the  maximum  quantity 
of  proofs  in  support  of  our  opinions  by  probing  them  and 
developing  them  with  every  kind  of  verification  and  analy- 
sis, will  become  a  guarantee  in  support  of  our  conclusion 
and  of  the  doctrinal  fabric  we  erect  on  it.  It  is  for  this  rea- 
son that  I  have  been  explaining  and  examining  the  principal 

[278:1 


I 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

objections  to  a  Philosophy  of  History  and  the  errors  and 
confusions  of  thought  in  regard  to  it  which  draw  into  a  dis- 
tinct field— and  one  conducive  to  confusions— the  interpreta- 
tion of  the  name. 

Over  and  above  all  this  cautiousness  and  reservation,  how- 
ever, stands  out  one  fact  which  even  the  most  decided  an- 
tagonist of  a  Philosophy  of  History  has  to  recognize,  not 
only  as  a  reality  but  as  a  thing  of  importance  and  significance. 
This  fact  is  the  persistence  in  the  human  mind— in  every  man 
who  thinks  at  all  about  the  world  and  about  life— of  those 
fundamental  interrogatories  in  regard  to  the  actual  problem 
of  the  philosophy  in  question. 

It  is  true  that,  in  view  of  the  potential  immensity  of  future 
history  and  the  paucity  of  that  at  our  disposal  (as  was 
observed  not  many  months  ago  by  your  compatriot  Profes- 
sor Sloane^,  the  persistence  in  humanity  or  in  great  masses 
of  it,  of  a  given  idea  or  preoccupation  does  not  in  itself  al- 
ways signify  that  the  notion  or  ideal  in  question  is  consub- 
stantial  with  our  nature,  since  it  may  well  be  a  survival,  a 
vibration  from  primitive  stages  of  thought  not  yet  modified, 
and  to  which,  in  fact  (in  that  relative  value  of  time),  w^e  are 
chronologically  very  near.  For  this  reason  it  is  not  a  plau- 
sible argument  in  support  of  the  necessity  of  an  idea  or  a 
belief  that  for  many  centuries  down  to  the  present  a  more  or 
less  considerable  number  of  people  have  supported  it  and 
held  it  to  be  something  fundamental.  The  future  may 
wholly  disillusion  us.  But  if  we  ascertain  that  a  definite  idea 
or  an  ideal  exists  throughout  mankind  and  is  the  stronger  in 
a  man  according  to  his  degree  of  culture  — in  an  inverse  rela- 
tion to  other  spiritual  phenomena,  which  exist  principally  on 
a  sentimental  basis  and  are  rooted  above  all  in  the  uncul- 

1  "The  Vision  and  Substance  of  History,"  address  delivered  at  Buffalo,  New 
York,  December  27,  191 1.  Published  in  "The  American  Historical  Review," 
January,  1912. 

1:279;] 


\ 


'I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

tured  masses  or  where  culture  is  inclpient-we  have  a  very 
powerful  argument  in  favor  of  its  essential  necessity  for  us. 
It  is  this  which  occurs  with  the  problem  of  the  Philosophy  of 
History.  Be  it  with  a  clear  understanding  of  their  meaning, 
their  classification  in  the  Encyclopedia  of  the  Sciences,  or  be 
it  without  ever  suspecting  the  relationship  they  bear  to  that, 
great  masses  of  people  are  to-day,  as  in  the  first  stages  of 
civilization,  formulating  questions  which  correspond  to  the 
fundamental  problems  of  our  science;  and  each  individual 
unit  in  those  masses  answers  these  questions  from  the  point 
of  view  of  a  religion,  a  system  of  philosophy,  or  simply  that 
of  a  common  sphere  of  culture  which  finds  reflection  in  him- 
self or  in  which  he  has  been  educated. 

It  is  true  that  many  people  pass  through  life  without  ex- 
periencing a  moment  in  which  those  questions  flash  before 
their  consciousness,  because  the  material  occupations  of  the 
daily  struggle  for  existence  leave  no  room  for  attention  to 
other  questions.  It  is  equally  true  that  among  those  who 
have  broken  free  from  this  material  incarceration,  and  even 
among  those  who  move  by  custom  in  an  intellectual  circle, 
these  questions  pass  often  enough  like  swiftly  flying  sparks 
rapidly  extinguished,  or  do  not  acquire  that  standard  of  im- 
portance which  is  given  to  a  question  as  the  result  of  deep 
preoccupation.  For  a  long  time,  owing  to  doctrinal  consid^ 
erations  arising  from  the  predominance  of  certain  philo- 
sophic systems  (philosophic  although  some  of  them  dis- 
countenance philosophy),  there  has  existed  an  indifference 
and  an  apathy  on  the  part  of  many  people  in  regard  to  those 
questions.  Although  there  has  been  a  reaction  in  this  re- 
spect, it  is  a  fact  that  the  number  is  still  large  of  those  who 
fail  to  appreciate  their  urgency— a  fact,  however,  which 
depends  on  general  causes  traceable  to  the  conditions  of  our 
modern  life.     The  feverish  activity,  the  superficiality  and 

[2803 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 
show  in  which  the  majority  exist,  cause  our  moments  of  pri- 
vacy and  meditation,  of  communion  of  the  spirit  with  itself 
and  of  self-examination  in  regard  to  life,  to  become  more 
difficult  and  rare.     Distracted  by  the  outside  spectacle,  we 
lose  the  habit  of  self-examination  and  become  deaf  to  the 
promptings  of  the  soul,  and  often  enough  we  pass  through 
life  in  ignorance  of  the  exalted  curiosity  within  us.    At  times, 
in  moments  of  brief  solitude  and  thought,  these  questions 
suddenly  appear  to  us,  but  the  intellectual  effort  required  in 
pursuing  them,  and  the  time  they  would  demand,  make  us 
shy  and  half  afraid  of  them,  with  the  result  that  we  suppress 
them  and  continue  as  though  in  ignorance  of  their  presence, 
until,  in  another  moment  of  doubt,  anguish,  discouragement 
or  pessimism  in  which  the  mind  has  nothing  to  fall  back  upon 
or  other  resources  but  its  own,  they  reappear  before  us, 
without,  however,  our  ever  possessing  the  hope  of  findmg 
time  or  opportunity  for  their  consideration  and  their  answer. 
Such  a  state  of  inattention  to  the  problem  is  not  enough, 
then,  to  deny  that  it  exists;  this  state  of  mind,  on  the  con- 
trary, continually  affirms  the  problem  as  a  presence.    When- 
ever we  wish  to  hear  its  voice,  it  is  with  the  utmost  clearness 
that  the  voice  echoes,  and  this  in  itself  will  be  enough  to 
guide  us  in  the  circumstances. 

The  historian  derives  a  knowledge,  or  what  he  believes  to 
be  a  knowledge,  of  the  principal  facts  concerning  the  history 
of  mankind;  he  traces  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  great  empires; 
he  describes  in  its  separate  stages  the  process  of  civilization, 
its  oscillating  and,  at  times,  contradictory  movement,  the 
advantage  to  one  state  of  the  labor  of  another  which  it  re- 
sumes and  carries  on,  the  things  which  have  been  accom- 
plished in  modern  times,  and  the  trajectory  and  law  of 
development  of  institutions  and  aspirations  regarded  as 
fundamental  in  importance ;  and  then,  over  and  above  all 

1:2813 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

this  remain  those  same  great,  disquieting  questions  which 
embody  the  whole  program  of  the  Philosophy  of  History: 
Where  and  toward  what  is  mankind  traveling?  Is  there  a 
goal  of  which,  at  present,  it  is  ignorant,  but  toward  which  is 
moving  the  central  current  of  its  history?  Is  it  being  im- 
pelled toward  that  end  by  something  beyond  and  transcen- 
dental to  it?  What  is  its  significance  and  value  in  the  whole, 
in  the  general  process  of  the  universe?  Is  it  the  creature  of 
chance,  or  has  it  an  orientation  and  direction?  And  if  it  has, 
can  we  deduce  that  movement  through  such  of  the  facts 
about  humanity  as  we  have  knowledge  of?  Does  there  exist 
in  the  actual  conditions  of  its  life  some  other  foundation 
than  the  corner-stone  of  history?  And,  following  from  all 
this,  what  state  is  it  which  marks  or  is  to  mark  the  triumph 
of  that  history,  the  culminating  situation  most  nearly  ap- 
proaching and  conforming  to  the  purpose  of  the  universe? 
Is  it  possible  to  define  and  predict  for  the  future  some  main 
path  for  man,  or  is  the  Philosophy  of  History  ever  restricted 
to  the  limits  of  the  present?  Of  the  utmost  clarity  for  every 
one  engaged  in  the  investigation  of  those  questions  which 
history,  deeply  contemplated,  raises,  must  be  the  real  and 
logical  hierarchy  which  exists  between  them.  Not  all  are  on 
the  same  level,  not  all  are  equally  far-reaching,  and  if  I  may 
use  a  phrase  which  is  unscientific  and  inexact  but  which  well 
reflects  what  would  be  thought  by  an  uneducated  person 
(that  is  to  say,  by  the  majority  of  people),  they  are  not  all 
equally  philosophical,  but  some  more  so  and  others  less. 
This  question  of  a  hierarchy  and  of  a  relative  importance 
possesses  a  greater  significance  than  would  at  first  sight  be 
imagined,  because  if  we  regard  it  as  a  proper  and  well- 
founded  one,  it  at  once  brings  us  to  the  point  as  to  whether 
or  not  the  professionals,  the  writers  who  have  propounded 
scientifically  the  problem  of  the  Philosophy  of  History,  have 

[282] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

grasped  in  fact  the  whole  and  entire  problem,  or  whether 
they  have  limited  themselves  merely  to  the  study  of  some  one 
or  several  of  the  questions  it  embodies,  and  perhaps  to  some 
of  them  which,  compared  with  those  embracing  the  main 
object  of  the  science,  would  be  called  secondary;  and  more 
than  this,  we  are  even  led  to  the  question  whether  it  may 
not  be  the  case  that,  while  preoccupied  with  what  they  re- 
garded as  the  real  problem,  they  were  not  confining  them- 
selves, through  an  error  of  perspective,  to  aspects  of  history 
quite  general  and  comprehensive  in  themselves,  but  above 
which  they  have  never  risen,   never  attaining  a  transcen- 
dental  vision  in  the  true  philosophic  field  to  which  they 
were  aspiring.     I  am  not  far  from  thinking  that  it  has  been 
thus  in  the  majority  of  cases,   at  least  with  those  great 
systems  which  have  attempted  a  fundamental  revolution  in 
the  Philosophy  of  History.     I  do  not  allude  by  this  to  the 
observation,  continually  reiterated  by  the  critics  and  some  of 
the  most  recent  exponents  in  the  matter,  that  the  majority  of 
these  systems,  if  not  all  of  them,  losing  sight  of  the  complex 
nature  of  the  problem,  have  given  an  ingenuous  explanation 
of  the  History  of  Mankind  to  which  is  owing  their  failure  or 
insufficiency.    I  refer  to  that  which,  apart  from  the  degree  of 
comprehensiveness  in  the  problem  they  embrace,  it  is  impos- 
sible to  ask  in  regard  to  whether  those  systems  embark  on 
the  true  problem  of  the  Philosophy  of  History,  on  which 
problem  depends  a  series  of  others  to  be  called  consequences, 
or  whether,  on  the  contrary,  it  is  not  from  one  of  these  self- 
same  "consequences''    or   minor   problems   that  they   have 
arisen,  the  minor  being  mistaken  for  the  greater  problem  in 
whose  solution  rests  that  of  all  the  others.    That  this  equivo- 
cation is  clear  in  Montesquieu,  in  Rousseau,  in  Voltaire  ever 
so  much  more  so,  and  in  other  authors  of  an  analogous  sci- 
entific standing  in  relation  to  the  Philosophy  of  History,— 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

that  they  failed  to  get  abreast  of  the  question  and  seriously 
tackle  Its  solutIon,-no  one  will  deny.     But  even  with  the 
great  masters  of  the  school,  the  same  doubt  is  legitimate, 
and  the  decision  may  be  actually  against  them.    Will  it  be 
said  that  Herder,  notwithstanding  the  discrimination  with 
which  he  subordinated  to  the  more  general  standpoint  those 
secondary  questions  which  were  almost  the  only  preoccupa- 
tion of  his  predecessors  in  the  century,  actually  raises  in  his 
problem  of  the  factors  and  issues  of  the  History  of  Mankind 
the  real  and  basic  question  of  the  Philosophy  of  History? 
Was  it  approached  by  Kant  in  his  own  explanation  of  human 
progress— that  is,  the  solution  which  is  offered  to  the  conflict 
between  individual  liberty  and  the  general  welfare-in  the 
State?    After  this  is  there  no  room,  even  when  the  Kantian 
solution  is  accepted,  for  questions  regarding  the  metaphys- 
ical problem  of  the  plan  of  history,  questions  above  and 
beyond  the  antagonism  of  individual  liberties  among  them- 
selves—that is  to  say,   questions  of  a  more  general   and 
comprehensive  character,  by  the  side  of  which  the  above  is 
subordinate  and  over  concrete?    And  In  spite  of  the  incon- 
testable grandeur  of  the  conception  of  Hegel,  are  we  not 
left,  perhaps,  with  the  impression  that  in  reality  it  lowers 
and  depreciates  the  problem  and  denies  it  what  should  be  a 
higher  point  of  view,  In  which  the  development  of  the  moral 
conscience,  of  freedom,  and  of  the  functions  of  the  State  be- 
comes subordinated?     The  observation  of  history  and  its 
mode  of  development,  and  the  Interpretation  of  It  exclusively 
from  the  viewpoint  of  a  standard  of  ethics,  notwithstanding 
a  metaphysical  quality,  is  yet  something  which  too  nearly  ap- 
proaches a  broad  but,  in  certain  respects,  very  concrete  vision 
of  historical  development  which  allows  a  vaster  and  remoter 
problem  to  float  above  it.    Yet  clearer  is  this  in  Comte  and 
his  disciples,  and  in  Marx  and  his,  the  character  of  whose 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

philosophies  is  purely  an  analysis  of  the  factors  behind  the 
phenomena  of  human  history,  factors  which  only  explain 
these  phenomena  in  a  secondary  manner.  Even  in  the  acutest 
and  most  comprehensive  of  these  systems  the  mind  is  not  left 
satisfied  as  when  one  has  set  hands  on  the  real  solution  to  a 
problem;  it  feels  (and  I  say  it  without  wishing  to  depreciate 
the  value  of  those  investigations  and  the  clear  light  they  have 
thrown  on  the  movements  of  mankind)  that  there  is  some- 
thing still  wanting,  something  greater  which  remains  unan- 
swered,  and  which,  if  answered,  would  respond  more  fully 
to  aspirations,  properly  speaking,  philosophical. 

I  regard  as  scientifically  legitimate  this  dissatisfaction  of 
the  mind  even  with  the  profoundest  and  minutest  analysis  of 
human  progress.  I  am  also  of  opinion  that  the  problem  of 
the  Philosophy  of  Human  History  ought  not  to  be  wholly 
limited  to  the  two  questions  formulated  by  Herder,— on  the 
value  of  that  history  and  the  conditions  in  regard  to  its  de- 
velopment,-since,  although,  in  the  consideration  of  the 
latter  question,  there  may  have  been  a  glimpse  of  the  ulti- 
mate  and  basic  problem,  the  systems  soon  settle  down  into  a 
mere  analysis  of  conditions  and  a  generalization  about  the 

facts  of  history  which  is  secondary  to  the  main  problem 

That  which  cannot  be  described  as  an  explanation  of  human 
facts  by  other  facts  of  a  like  nature  (they  may  be  as  general 
and  fundamental  as  you  like,  but  that  does  not  affect  their 
nature)  cannot  be  described  as  history;  and  thus,  what  has 
by  some  schools  of  thinkers  been  called  the  ''anatomy''  and 
the  ''physiology"  (or  the  "psychology,''  from  another  stand- 
point) of  human  action,  is  not  Philosophy  of  History.^ 

1  It  Is  in  not  passing  from  that  narrow  standpoint  that  those  claiming  to 
have  construed  doctrines  and  systems  of  a  Philosophy  of  History  have  been 
able  to  introduce  and  discuss  the  question  of  the  anticipation  of  future  his- 
tory In  the  concrete  conception  of  this  question  it  has  been  attirmed:  Hu- 
manity, in  the  future,  will  act  in  such  and  such  a  way,  and  attain  such  and 
such  standards  of  civilization  and   development."     The  question  is  neither 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

And  now,  in  conclusion,  there  remains  this  culminating 
question:  Does  there  exist  any  actual  reality  and  basis  cor- 
responding to  that  aspiration  of  ours  towards  a  transcenden- 
tal explanation  of  what  is  a  greater  problem  than  all  those 
scientifically  formulated  until  now  in  the  so-called  Philos- 
ophy of  History,  or  is  it  a  pure  whim  and  caprice  of  the 
spirit  that  is  never  to  be  satisfied?  To  this  question  I  do  not 
believe  we  can  provide  at  present  a  scientific  answer;  but  I 
should  point  out  that  neither  our  present  nor  permanent 
impotence  regarding  the  solution  of  what  is  an  idealistic 
problem  can  banish  that  problem  from  the  mind,  which  con- 
tinues to  formulate  it  as  an  aspiration  that  is  ineradicable 
and  to  which  it  is  forever  hopeful  of  finding  a  solution. 

And  lastly  we  should  remember,  in  order  that  the  logical 
statement  of  the  problem  may  leave  no  loophole  of  uncer- 
tainty, that  the  questions  in  which  we  embody  the  main  sub- 
stance of  the  Philosophy  of  History  do  not,  in  their 
formulation,  prejudge  an  affirmative  answer,  nor  is  such  an 
answer  an  ineludible  necessity  for  their  existence.  Although 
our  answer  to  all  these  questions  were  in  the  negative,  they 
would  continue  to  be  problems  present  in  our  minds— so 
long,  that  is,  as  the  answer  is  not  indisputably  a  scientific 
one;  and  even  if  it  were,  it  would,  none  the  less,  be  legiti- 
mate material  for  a  Philosophy  of  History  as  real  and 
settled  as  if  it  answered  in  the  affirmative  those  same  inter- 
rogations which  for  the  majority  of  men  correspond  to  a 
desire,  latent  but  ineradicable,  to  see  explained  in  an  or- 
dered, rational  and  scientific  method,  according  to  the  gen- 
eral plan  of  the  whole  universe,  the  Life  of  Man. 

permissible  nor  can  it  be  included  in  the  field  of  the  Philosophy  of  History. 
Thus,  Meyer  is  right  (in  his  "History  of  Antiquity")  when  he  judges  that 
such  predictions  are  impossible,  since  in  that  which  is  generally  referred  to, 
the  individual  element  predominates,  escaping  all  prognostication;  and 
affirms,  always  from  that  standpoint,  that  history  only  allows  of  comproba- 
tion,  and  not  of  any  fixing  of  the  future. 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

For  this  reason  the  essential  necessity  of  a  Philosophy  of 
History  depends  neither  on  a  special  solution  of  its  problems 
nor  on  the  actual  possibility  of  a  solution  being  afforded 
them.     It  arises  principally  from  the  presence  of  the  prob- 
lem in  our  minds  and  from  the  corroborated  fact  that  the 
highest  expression  of  what,  as  concerns  our  history.  Is  called 
progress,  consists  in  the  awakening  of  humanity  to  the  ideal- 
istic quality  behind  its  actions,  of  the  things  it  is  accustomed 
to  perform  In  ignorance  of  their  value  and  significance;  and 
In  the  guidance  of  his  life  by  man,  ever  increasingly,  through 
the  medium  of  that  consciousness  and  with  an  ever  clearer 
vision  of  the  ''why  and  wherefore''  of  things.    To  assist,  by 
due  attention  to  this  problem,  in  promoting  the  study  of  it, 
and,  some  day  (whenever  that  may  be),  the  solution  of  it, 
is  more  reasonable  and  human  than  to  bang  the  door  upon  it 
with  an  a  priori  negative  against  its  possibility,  or  than  to 
belittle  and  discard  it. 


1:2873 


:1 


I 


I 


\ 


THE  RICE  LNSTITUTE 


Second  Lecture 
THE  THEORY  OF  CIVILIZATION 

HAVING  tackled  the  main  problem  of  the  Philosophy 
of  History,  we  should  now  ascertain  what  practical 
issues  have  arisen  from  the  study  of  those  would-be  philo- 
sophic problems  undertaken  by  the  specialists,  and  what,  in 
this  connection,  deserves  further  attention. 

We  saw,  it  will  be  remembered,  that  all  these  so-called  sys- 
tems of  a  Philosophy  of  History,  all  the  interpretations  of 
this  science  to  which  the  above  name  has  been  arrogated, 
have  been  limited,  in  reality,  to  the  scope  of  history,  tran- 
scending this  field  only  in  brief  moments  of  the  investigation 
or  in  theological  conceptions  which  we  are  not  concerned 
with.  But,  although  none  of  the  systems  in  question  may 
have  afforded  a  real  basis  for  the  science  they  proposed,  they 
have  served,  on  the  other  hand,  in  no  small  measure  as  a 
means  of  deepening  our  conception  of  history  itself  and  of 
widening  our  vision  of  it,  while  revealing  all  that  is  em- 
braced in  what  is  called  historical  material,  determining  the 
more  important  and  decisive  factors  which  (some  of  them 
in  distinct  periods  or  epochs,  others  at  all  times)  are  at  play 
in  the  action  of  mankind.  In  spite  of  the  exaggerations 
which  in  most  of  these  systems  are  conspicuous,  and  in  some 
notorious,  it  is  an  undeniable  fact,  once  having  discarded  the 
false,  unilateral  pretension  common  to  nearly  all  of  them 
and  transferred  them  to  their  own  sphere  of  history,  in 
which  such  of  their  investigations  as  are  of  value  may  be 
developed,  that  to  the  science  of  historiography  they  have 
rendered  immense  services,  at  once  widening  its  horizon  and 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 
revealing  the  complexity  of  human  labor  which  each  one  of 
them  has  studied  in  an  aspect  not  infrequently  as  real  as  it 
was  hitherto  unrealized.     We  can  appreciate  the  positive 
fruits  of  these  investigations  on  observing  the  great  differ- 
ence between  our  method  to-day  of  conceiving  and  writing 
history  and  that  which  prevailed  some  centuries  ago ;  and 
even,  it  may  be  said,  between  the  historians  of  the  seven- 
teenth century  and  those  of  the  nineteenth.     The  method- 
ologists,  advancing  theoretically  ahead  of  the  historiograph- 
ers (the  latter  exerting  themselves  to  fulfil  the  exigencies  of 
the  former  and  turning  to  account  the  suggestions  obtained 
from  the  "philosophers"  of  history,  or  at  times  actually 
raising  systems  of  their  own  by  way  of  experiment  and  illus- 
tration-^.^., Taine),  have  paved  the  way  for  our  modern 
conception,  ever  becoming  wider  and  profounder,  of  human 
history.    And  this  labor,  which  has  enabled  us  to  elucidate 
man's  past  with  ever  increasing  vividness  and  with  a  keener 
penetration  of  its  meaning,  is  a  solid  basis  on  which  we  may 
hope  to  find  an  answer  to  several  of  the  questions  which  are 
suggested  to  us  in  the  contemplation  of  that  past.    Starting, 
then,  from  such  a  basis,  with  all  due  prudence  and  a  rigorous 
employment  of  those  critical  methods  of  investigation  which 
are  essential  if  one  is  to  avoid  wandering  into  fantasies  (fan- 
tasies, though,  not  necessarily  philosophic  in  pretension),  we 
shall  be  able  often  enough  to  arrive  at  conclusions  of  real 
scientific  value,  while  other  hypotheses  will  serve  as  a  scaf- 
folding for  subsequent  investigation.    And  as  this  field  em- 
braces what  is  positive  and  certain,  and  all  that  we  are  inter- 
ested in,  deriving  from  a  great  portion  of  the  moral  and 
political  applications  of  historical  knowledge,  it  is  our  busi- 
ness to  approach  and  examine  it  rather  than  sacrifice  It  to 
the  lure  of  a  higher  and  remoter  explanation,  which,  even  if 
possible,  In  no  way  excludes  the  above  study  nor  renders  it 

1:2893 


I 


■h 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

useless.     Within  purely  terrestrial  alms  and  limitations  of 
which  we  ourselves  are  cognizant-that  is  to  say,  human 
aims,  of  human  interest-while  equally,  also,  in  our  legiti- 
mate'  anxiety  to  understand  more  fully  the  way  in  which, 
from  one  moment  to  another,  a  community  conceives  its  task 
and  function  in  the  world  and  tackles  and  solves  the  prob- 
lems which  are  its  own,  what  is  of  immediate  consequence  is 
the  investigation  of  all  those  historical  elements  which  may 
afford  us  the  knowledge  we  require  and  establish  our  con- 
clusions; for,  in  the  long  run,  that  in  the  study  of  history 
which  descends  among  the  crowd  and  interests  it,  is  the  criti- 
cal estimation  in  which,  as  a  result  of  historiography,  each 
historical  epoch  and  entity  is  held,  and  the  estimation  of  the 
general  movement  of  mankind  in  regard  to  the  question  of 
social  development  or  ^'progress"  as  we  define  it,  though 
with  error,  since  a  meaning  is,  in  this  connection,  attributed 
to  the  word  which  implies  actual  betterment,  improvement. 
Clearly  such  a  point  of  view  will  be  a  very  subjective  and  un- 
certain one,  since  it  entails  that  each  epoch  judges  past  ages 
according  to  its  own  social  and  moral  criterion,  and  this 
criterion  is  not  eternally  the  same;  but  there  is  no  other 
standpoint  open  to  us,  nor  can  there  ever  be  another,  with 
the  result  that  our  only  course  is  to  reconcile  ourselves  to  the 
manner  and  circumstances  in  which  these  questions  must  be 
considered  and  in  which  they  have  attracted  us.     If  we  are 
bent  on  verifying  history  ever  more  widely  and  more  pre- 
cisely, it  is  not  for  the  simple  esthetic  pleasure  of  knowing 
things,  of  reading  or  hearing  narratives  as  children  read  and 
are  told  stories,  but  for  the  object  of  explaining  to  ourselves 
why  men  have  acted  in  such  and  such  a  manner,  of  apportion- 
ing their  responsibility  and  forming  our  opinions  about  their 
conduct.    Whether  or  not  we  are  conscious  of  this  object,  it 
is  this  which  is  the  initial  force  behind  our  curiosity  regard- 

[290] 


I 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Ing  history,  our  researches  either  aiming  at  an  explanation 
and  justification  of  that  particular  national  or  political  ag- 
gregate to  which  we  may  belong,  or  a  criticism  of  the  others 
foreign  to  It;  and  the  judgments  and  appreciations  which  are 
left  over  in  our  minds  from  these  researches  are  factors 
which  determine  the  conduct  we  pursue  In  our  own  private 
sphere  of  action  and  in  our  relationship  with  other  minds. 
From  a  broader  and  more  disinterested  standpoint,  above 
mere  national  distinctions,  we  are  desirous,  also,  of  learning 
the  road  humanity  is  taking  in  what  we  suppose  to  be  a 
definite  trajectory  toward  a  more  perfect  state;  what  actual 
advances  have  so  far  been  achieved;  and  what  are  the  surest 
means,  such  as  the  experience  of  history  has  confirmed,  for 
guaranteeing  and  augmenting  this  improvement.    And  here. 
In  this  higher  sphere,  that  which  in  the  other  province  of  con- 
crete criticisms  and  estimations  regarding  given  communities 
amounts  to  a  conflict  between  national  Influences  and  inter- 
ests,  is  now  a  conflict  of  general  theories  about  life,  of  dis- 
tinct methods  and  systems  of  organization,   a  conflict  for 
priority  between  such  and  such  factors  in  the  life  of  man 
which,  on  the  supposed  justification  of  history,  claim,  in  re- 
gard to  that  life,  the  right  to  be  made  the  controller  of  It.^ 

And  this  practical  Issue  which  men  deduce  from  historical 
investigation  adds  a  new  value  to  it  over  and  above  what  it 
represents  In  the  sphere  of  pure  speculation,  and  Is  one  of 
the  motives  on  which  Its  study  may  be  justified  against  those 
combating  it,  in  the  name  of  a  common  utilitarianism  which 
Is  eternally  In  doubt  but  forever  reappearing. 

The  investigation  which  is  proposed  here  embraces  the 
two  points  of  view  referred  to,  responding  to  the  suggestion 
of  the  theme  taken  by  Dr.  Edgar  Odell  Lovett,  President  of 
the  Rice  Institute,  for  the  present  inaugural  celebrations. 
We  shall  discuss  first  of  all,  as  a  general  question,  the  prob- 

[29O 


in 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

lem  of  the  history  of  mankind,  following  this  with  a  special 
investigation  into  the  Spanish  backgrounds  of  American  his- 
tory. 

The  general  problem  of  human  history,  as  we  shall  inter- 
pret it,  is  the  problem  of  "civilization,"  or,  as  it  is  also  ex- 
pressed, of  "progress."  Is  the  process  of  human  civilization 
something  continual  and  indefinite?  Is  civilization  a  thing 
which  is  permanent,  transmissible,  and  which  grows  in  succes- 
sive stages?  What  is  the  actual  stage  of  civilization  we  of 
this  era  have  arrived  at,  taking  the  criterion  of  humanity  in 
general,  or  of  those  we  regard  as  the  most  highly  developed 
groups  of  it?  These  are  the  first  questions  which  the  prob- 
lem raises.  By  what  means  is  civilization  produced?  What, 
in  consequence,  is  the  procedure  to  be  adopted  in  order  to 
insure  and  further  it?  These  are  the  questions  which  imme- 
diately follow. 

Now,  as  regards  both  series  of  questions  the  answer  is 
naturally  to  be  sought  in  history,  since  civilization  is  an  his- 
torical fact.  This  historical  fact,  however,  has  been  trans- 
lated in  our  minds  into  a  conception,  or,  to  define  better  this 
appellation  of  "civilized"  which  we  apply  to  certain  ways 
and  customs,  certain  principles  of  life  and  conduct  adopted 
by  men  in  their  relations  with  one  another  (as  distinct  from 
other  ways  which  we  should  not  describe  as  civilized),  into 
an  idealistic  criterion— a  classification,  that  is,  of  the  par- 
ticular conception  and  ideal  we  stand  for.  It  is  thus  that  the 
first  question  to  be  considered  and  settled  is  the  question  of 
the  exact  categorical  meaning  we  shall  agree  upon  for  the 
word  in  which  are  embodied  all  those  different  principles  and 
customs— that  is  to  say,  the  first  question  to  be  answered  is: 
What  is  civilization?  As  regards  the  common  meaning  of 
the  word,  the  vague  acceptance  accorded  it,  such  as  is  usually 

[292] 


I 

1 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 
accorded  words,  and  which  admits  of  their  use  in  conversa- 
tion and  even  in  books  without  the  necessity,  on  each  occa- 
sion, of  explaining  them,  the  answer  to  the  above  question 
would  appear  simple.  Yet,  nevertheless,  as  occurs  in  so 
many  other  cases  when  one  endeavors  to  fix  the  meaning  of 
a  term,  there  is  not  merely  a  variation  in  the  acceptance  of 
this  word  among  different  people,-a  variation,  let  it  be 
noted,  singularly  conspicuous  among  professionals  and 
specia'lists,-but  often  enough  an  utter  contradiction. 

A  rapid  inquiry  into  the  principal  interpretations  of  the 
word  "civilization"  will  enable  us  to  become  master  of  this 
difficulty  on  which,  sooner  or  later,  one  inevitably  stumbles. 
...  We  will  discard,  at  the  outset,  that  acceptance  of  the 
word,  common  in  modern  historiography  and  prevalent  as 
early  as  the  eighteenth  century,  according  to  which  the  his- 
tory of  civilization  {Kulturgeschichte)  is  held  in  contraposi- 
tion  to  "political  history,"  or  which  also  makes  the  term 
"history  of  civilization"  synonymous  with  the  internal  his- 
tory of  communities  in  opposition  to  what  is  external  history, 
and  comprehensive  only  of  political  facts,  or  rather  that  sec- 
tion of  political  facts  most  superficial  and  least  permanent  in 
character.*     Such   a   contradistinction   is   illogical  because 
there  is  no  justification  for  it  in  fact.    The  history  of  man 
has  not  evolved  in  this  fashion,  divided  into  two  funda- 
mentally separate  branches  of  equal  magnitude;  and,  more- 
over, there  are  no  grounds  for  maintaining  that  many— or, 
in  fact,  any-of  the  facts  of  political  history  are  extraneous 
and  immaterial  to  the  sphere  of  civilization.  .  .  .  Rid,  how- 
ever, of  this  illogical  distinction,  we  are  still  faced  and 
obstructed  by  the  twofold  difficulty  that  among  the  defini- 
tions of  civilization  offered  under  the  title  of  scientific  there 

1  On  this  question  also  reference  should  be  made  to  the  book  previously 
mentioned. 


i 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

are  scarcely  two  that  coincide/  and  that  the  criterion  by 
which  a  community  judges  its  own  and  other  civilizations  is 
not  common  and  the  same  for  all-at  least,  that  is,  when  it 
is  a  question  of  fixing  the  basic  and  essential  characteristic  of 

the  civilized  state. 

As  a  first  group  of  opinions  may  be  mentioned  those  ac- 
cording to  which  '^civilization*'  designates,  inexclusively,  the 
general  situation  in  any  country  which  has  graduated  through 
a  certain  phase  of  development  in  Its  intellectual  and  mate- 
rial life,— the  requisite  development  in  question  being  fixed 
as  the  Invention  of  the  use  of  Iron,  or  the  discovery  of  the  art 
of  writing,  or  any  other  analogous  event  prior  to  which  man 
would  be  described  as  without  culture,  as  "barbarous"  or 
"savage."  Dismissing,  however,  the  doubts  and  uncer- 
tainties raised  by  this  artificial  limit,  all  that  need  be  em- 
phasized Is  the  general  standpoint  shared  by  all  the  opinions 
in  this  category,  and  In  virtue  of  which  such  expressions  are 
used  as  "the  civilization  of  Egypt"  or  "the  civilization  of 
Greece,"  terms  embracing  in  totality  the  life  of  each,  inclu- 
sive of  all  phases,  good  or  bad,  concomitant  or  not  with  true 
"civilization"  In  the  modern  acceptance  of  the  word.  Thus 
the  historian  who  with  this  criterion  and  terminology  de- 
scribes the  civilization  of  Greece  will  not  exclude  as  a  phase 
and  feature  of  It  either  the  slave  system  or  the  Greek  re- 
ligion, though  the  one  appear  to  him  unjust  and  the  other 

false. 

Diametrically  opposed  to  this  Interpretation  of  the  term 
Is  the  category  of  opinions  which,  starting  from  a  given  dog- 
matic conception  of  civilization,  partly  ethical  and  In  part 
material,  excludes  from  the  scope  of  the  word  anything  which 

1  It  is  unnecessary  to  formulate  here  a  list  of  these  definitions;  any  one  can 
find  them  out  from  the  well  known  writers  on  the  subject,— to  quote,  for  ex- 
ample, several  tendencies:  Guizot,  Burke,  Gumplowicz,  Henry  George,  Kidd, 
MetchnikofiF,  Tolstoy,  etc. 


i 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

is  not  adjustable  to  this  conception;  so  that  out  of  what  is 
called  the  civilization  of  a  given  people,  or  of  man  In  gen- 
eral, would  be  abstracted  as  uncivilized  and  barbarous  many 
phases-not  invariably  the  same-which  according  to  the 
other  terminology  would  be  left  included.     In  this  group 
may  be  included  all  those  authors  who  hold  to  be  essential, 
before  a  people  or  a  person  may  be  called  civilized,  either  a 
certain  development  in  regard  to  material  conditions  or  a 
certain  standard  of  attainment  respecting  moral  relationship 
and  conduct.    It  is  clear,  of  course,  that  such  a  category  of 
opinions  becomes  divided  into  an  Infinity  of  sub-groups,  ac- 
cording as  the  writer  judges  that  It  is  impossible  to  regard 
as  compatible  with  the  ideal  of  civilization-being  typical 
only  of  the  barbarian  or  savage-the  lack  (according  to  his 
view)  of  justice  and  morality  in  such  and  such  orders  of  life, 
or  the  need  of  a  given  religious  faith,  or  the  absence  of  such 
and  such  Ideals,  or  of  certain  conditions  of  culture,  comfort, 
hygiene,  etc.     And  this  diversity  of  opinion  becomes  still 
further  complicated  when,  as  often  happens,  It  Is  not  merely 
that  human  manifestations  are  split  up  into  two  categories, 
but  further  than  this,  that  one  or  more  of  them,  in  a  certain 
grade  of  development,  are  fixed  upon  and  requisitioned  as 
an  indispensable  necessity  without  which  no  historical  epoch 
or  community  can  be  said  to  have  been  civilized,— the  claim 
being  that  without  this  given  factor  all  other  phases  of  life, 
material  and  spiritual,  advanced  as  their  development  may 
be,  are  at  a  discount  and  Insufficient  In  themselves  to  warrant 
for  those  who  represent  them  the  description  of  "civilized." 
Most  of  the  interpretations  in  question  refer  to  cardinal 
necessities  in  the  moral,  juridical  or  Intellectual  order;  there 
being  others,  however,  for  whom  the  favored  sphere  Is  the 
material,  more  or  less  associated  with  a  certain  social  and 
juridical  organization. 

[295] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Now,  In  the  truly  scientific  mind  all  these  distinct  stand- 
points and  suggestions  do  not  at  all  awaken  the  alarm  usually 
produced  in  those  who,  for  lack  of  a  personal  opinion,  de- 
pend upon  the  opinions  of  others,  fluctuating  and  distracted 
amid  the  variety  afforded  them.  The  scientific  mind,  on  the 
contrary,  accepts  as  its  definition  nothing  other  than  what  is 
naturally  suggested  by  a  clear  grasp  of  fact— to  wit,  that 
civilization  is  a  status  of  human  life  constituted  of  several 
and  fundamental  and  integral  elements  (embracing  alike  In- 
tellectual, moral,  artistic,  anthropological  and  social  develop- 
ment, with  the  development  of  mind  and  character),  all 
being  necessary  In  that  they  respond  to  conditions  and 
exigencies  of  human  life  that  are  also  fundamental;  further, 
that  their  respective  development  is  not  parallel  and  uni- 
form, either  in  the  general  history  of  humanity  or  in  the 
individual  history  of  each  realm,  and  that  what  Is  properly 
speaking  the  conception  of  civilization  Is  a  standard  and 
ideal  of  life  according  to  which  we  appreciate  every  his- 
torical actuality  and  gauge  the  status  and  situation  of  every 
phase  and  order  of  the  life  of  nations.  Our  basis  Is  the  con- 
ception of  a  perfected  existence,  and  it  Is  in  relation  to  this 
conception  that  we  signalize  grades  of  perfection  and  devel- 
opment, of  approximation  to  the  Ideal. 

Now,  for  ourselves,  for  the  nations  of  America  and  their 
offspring  in  America  this  Ideal  Is  the  Ideal  of  European 
civilization  in  what  it  possesses  that  is  common  and  inherent 
among  all  the  nations  which  have  collaborated  In  It  through 
the  ages.  But  now,  above  and  beyond  this  there  exist  other 
communities  which  It  cannot  be  denied  have  attained  a  high 
level  of  ''progress"  in  other  directions,  and  which  cannot 
therefore  be  ostracized  from  civilization— communities 
whose  standard  and  ideal  differ  consciously  from  ours  In 
many  fundamental  aspects.    Such  is  the  case  with  China,  for 

[296] 


4 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

example;  and  It  is  the  truth,  however  much  one  hesitates  to 
recognize  it  through  attachment  to  our  own  special  manner 
of  regarding  things,  that  in  this  fact  is  demonstrated  beyond 
doubt  the  existence  of  different  historical  directions  of  civili- 
zation, or  at  least  of  two— namely,  European  and  Asiatic. 
The  greater  or  lesser  probability  of  the  former  ultimately 
absorbing  the  latter,  apart  from  the  fact  that  It  is  a  moot 
question  whether  the  probability  embraces  an  absolute  ab- 
sorption or  only  a  partial  substitution  in  given  phases  of 
activity,  does  not  invalidate  the  fact  that  there  have  existed, 
and  exist  to-day,  these  two  fundamentally  distinct  directions, 
and  ought  to  create  in  us  a  certain  caution  in  venturing  on 
dogmatic  assertions. 

Returning  again,  then,  to  the  question  of  the  Integral  ele- 
ments of  which  civilization  is  constituted,  there  are  two 
things  we  must  observe:  first,  that  these  elements  respond  to 
different  manifestations  or  types  of  human  development; 
and,  secondly,  that  our  researches  are  not  limited  to  merely 
ascertaining  the  existence  of  such  elements,  or  even  their 
degree  of  development,  but  their  adaptability,  their  qualifica- 
tions for  fulfilling  the  Ideal  of  life  aspired  to.  And,  more- 
over, it  should  be  noted  that  the  Importance  of  the  elements 
In  question  as  inherent  properties  of  the  human  species  Is  not 
enough  to  satisfy  us,  but  that  we  insist  emphatically  on  the 
question  of  their  relative  importance,  their  situation  In  a 
hierarchy  and  order  of  necessity,  either  in  recognition  of  a 
factor  which  Is  higher  than  the  will  of  man,  or  as  an  opera- 
tion preparatory  to  uniting  the  best  efforts  of  men  in  devel- 
oping and  perfecting  In  a  self-conscious  plan  that  element 
which,  of  all  human  manifestations,  is  most  highly  prized 
and  estimated,  and  regarded  perhaps  as  the  basis  of  the  rest. 
And  It  Is  of  course  undeniable  that,  from  the  distinct  stand- 
points adopted  In  this  problem  result  distinct  social,  political 

1:297:] 


,   "JK      r^  1  K     I 


■    .tJ»».-..  ,  *-     -^>K!'1fcr^ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

and  educational  criteria  and  distinct  views  of  history,  past 
and  present,  and  of  the  achievements  of  man  in  general  or 
given  countries  in  particular. 

But  observe,  now,  the  difference  between  the  problems 
and  divergences  here  raised  and  those  resulting  from  the 
admission  or  non-admission  of  such  and  such  phenomena 
into  the  sphere  of  civilization.  In  the  present  case  there  is 
nothing  of  that  contradiction  and  confusion  resulting  from 
mutually  destructive  exigencies  of  inclusion  and  exclusion, 
for  in  this  case  we  admit  the  reality  and  necessity  of  all. 
What  is  proposed  is  to  determine  a  scale  of  importance  or  a 
hierarchy  between  the  factors  of  civilization.  All  we  have 
to  do  is  to  compare,  for  example,  the  position  of  Ruskin, 
who  maintained  that  Art  is  the  most  important  element  in 
life,  with  that  of  Marx,  or  the  position  of  those  who  regard 
intellectual  development  as  the  main  factor  on  which  every- 
thing depends,  with  that  of  the  advocates  of  the  moral  or 
religious  factor  in  place  of  the  intellectual. 

This  question  of  hierarchy  is  the  cardinal  question,  indeed, 
which  the  problem  of  civilization  raises,  because  it  affords  at 
the  same  time  the  key  for  our  judgments  of  both  the  present 
and  the  past  and  the  solution  of  the  question  as  to  what  sort 
of  rational  influence  and  guidance  is  to  be  exerted  by  the 
will  and  intelligence  of  man  in  the  directing  of  his  life  along 
a  certain  route,  or  the  adoption  of  a  given  organization  and 
regime.  It  will  be  said,  without  doubt,  that  this  is  not,  prop- 
erly speaking,  an  historical  question,  but  rather  a  political  one 
(in  that  it  embraces  the  organization  of  life),  or  pedagog- 
ical, in  the  higher  and  wider  acceptance  of  the  word.*    There 

1  Some  schools,  however,  have  considered  it  as,  actually  and  strictly  speak- 
ing historical:  for  example,  Marx,  who  does  not  affirm  his  theory  of  the 
predominance  of  the  economic  factor  as  a  rational  necessity  which  »«««  " 
be  granted,  but  as  a  fact  and  a  reality  which  has  always  existed,  and  which 
from  this  historical  basis  derives  its  real  essentiality. 

[298] 


I 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

is  no  denying,  however,  that  any  one  who  approaches  this 
question  is  obliged  to  seek  in  history  many  of  his  data  for 
the  solution  of  it,  and  that  its  solution  is  bound  inevitably  to 
react  on  his  outlook  upon  history.    At  least  no  one  can  be 
indifferent  to  this  question.    The  question  as  to  whether  it  is 
the  egoistical  and  utilitarian  principle,  in  the  material  ac- 
ceptance of  these  terms,  which  is  to  triumph  in  the  world,  or 
the  ethical  and  altruistic;  the  question  as  to  whether  our 
present  life  embodies  in  itself  its  own  aim  and  culmination, 
or  has  to  be  directed  toward  a  posterior  and  ultra-terrestrial 
goal,  in  relation  to  which  it  is  merely  a  transitory  and  pre- 
paratory phase  to  be  regarded  as  such  and  nothing  else;  the 
question  as  to  whether  the  world  of  the  future  has  or  ought 
to  be  "Greek''  in  character  or  "Carthaginian,"  interpreting 
these  names,  for  the  moment,  in  the  idealistic  signification 
which  a  tradition,  whose  reliability  it  would  be  out  of  place 
to  discuss  here,  has  given  them  across  the  centuries,  is  one 
that  ought  to  be  the  concern,  and  in  fact  is  the  concern,  of 
everybody,   and  in  the  solution  of  which  that  experience 
which  is  offered  by  history  in  the  shape  of  the  positive  issues 
which  characterize  two  main  directions  of  civilization  is  a 
guide  of  considerable  importance.     For  this  reason,  in  the 
theoretical    argument    conducted    between    educationalists, 
politicians,  theologians,  and  philosophers,  full  and  compre- 
hensive knowledge  of  the  civilizations  of  the  various  nations 
as  inspired  by  one  or  other  of  the  ideals  In  advocacy,  or  by  a 
proportionate  conjunction  of  them.  Is  a  basis  that  Is  Indlspen- 
sable,  bringing  us  away  from  problems  which  are  In  the  melt- 
ing-pot of  other  sciences  to  the  strict  field  of  history-ltself 
a  fresh  comprobatlon,  let  it  be  noted,  of  the  organic  relation- 
ship, close  interdependence  and  essential  Intrinsic  unity  in 
which  all  departments  of  human  thought  are  Included.  A  true 
understanding  of  man's  labor  in  the  world,  and  of  the  prac- 

[299] 


m 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

tical  issues  and  effects  of  each  of  the  great  human  divisions  of 
civilization,  without  the  admixture  of  prejudice  and  fiction, 
without  the  substitution  for  corroborated  truth  of  unscien- 
tific suppositions,  is  thus  an  exigency  which  is  more  than 
merely  historical,  which  transcends  the  proper  limits  of  his- 
tory and  brings  us  into  the  arena  of  man's  highest  preoccupa- 
tions in  relation  to  the  future;  while  it  is  clear,  of  course, 
that  if  there  is  much  in  history  which,  after  an  impartial 
segregation  of  what  is  definite  and  trustworthy,  is  left  over 
as  uncertain,  that  section  of  historical  knowledge  which  Is  a 
secure  and  arguable  basis  can  only  possess  a  relative  value 
and  a  limited  application,— this,  indeed,  being  the  first  point 
which  It  Is  both  the  right  and  the  duty  of  the  historian  to 
confess  and  discuss  before  such  as  apply  to  him,  in  the  Inter- 
ests of  other  sciences,  for  the  material  and  data  which  are 
his  monopoly,  and  in  regard  to  which  he  alone  is  qualified  to 
speak.  .  .  .  Hence,  then,  the  paramount  importance  of  a 
comprehensive  and  scientific  history  of  civilization;  for  this 
reason,  also,  all  the  investigations  of  historians,  properly 
described,  and  of  sociologists,  economists,  pedagogues,  psy- 
chologists, etc.,  respecting  the  factors  which,  as  such,  have 
really  actuated  and  are  actuating  the  life  of  man,— respect- 
ing their  manner  of  operation,  their  mutual  action  and 
reaction,  their  hierarchy  and,  finally,  their  Issues  and  effects, 
—  are  indispensable  in  the  attainment  of  a  real  and  thorough 
understanding  of  human  history,  and  demand,  therefore,  the 
most  rigorous  exactitude  as  regards  scientific  proof.  So  long 
as  they  lack  the  security  of  corroborated  truth,  there  can  of 
course  be  no  deductions  regarding  them — a  fact  which  should 
be  remiembered  by  such  as  are  Impatient  for  categorical  con- 
clusions. 

The  other  question  which  stands  out  with  the  above  as  of 
cardinal  importance  is  that  of  the  persistence  and  continu- 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 
ance  of  civilization.    We  know,  as  a  fruit  of  modern  criti- 
cism and  research,  that  the  theory  of  continuous  progress  is, 
at  any  rate,  a  false  one;  that  history  offers  repeated  instances 
of  reaction  and  decadence  now  on  the  part  of  one  particular 
community,   now   in  a   whole   group   of   such  communities 
(those,  even,  of  an  entire  continent).     We  know  also  that 
there  have  been  highly  advanced  civilizations  that  have  dis- 
appeared from  the  world  without  any  transmission  or  ab- 
sorption into  other  communities  distinct   from  those  that 
embodied  them,  civilizations  whose  thread  has  broken  and 
whose  labor  has  remained  for  centuries  and  centuries  burled 
and  abortive;  and  In  the  contemplation  of  these  facts  It  is 
only  natural  that  uneasiness  should  gain  possession  of  us  with 
respect  to  the  future.     Is  It  not  possible  that  the  future  may 
witness  regressions  such  as  that  of  the  Middle  Ages-a  reac- 
tion which  embraced  all  the  most  civilized  races  of  the 
world?    Is  there  not  a  possibility  that  the  entire  labor  that 
man,  up  to  the  present,  has  accomplished,  may  one  day  be 
annihilated,  swept  from  the  face  of  the  earth  and  lost  as  a 
heritage   for   future   ages?     Ought  we   not  take   into   ac- 
count the  intervention  of  geological  upheavals  such  as  those 
which  fiction-writers  have  depicted  in  stories— without,  of 
course,  any  scientific  value?     Moreover,  in  the  background 
(it  is  useless  to  deny  it)   there  is  always  this  same  awful 
specter,  the  possible  annihilation  of  the  whole  human  race 
itself,  some  sudden  uprooting  of  its  entire  records,  a  pos- 
sibility which  chills  the  spirit  of  those  who  contemplate  it, 
and  engenders  a  skeptical  feeling  of  futility-the  futility  of 
a  struggle  upward  toward  a  better  life  which  is  ultimately  to 
better  no  one,  which  is  doomed  to  be  abortive.    It  Is  enough, 
indeed,  to  recall  the  possibility  that,  apart  altogether  from 
climatic  aberrations  or  the  destruction  of  large  parts  of  the 
earth's  crust,  this  discontinuance  may,  none  the  less,  occur. 


« I 
1' 


HI 


THE  RICE  IiNSTITUTE 

as  has  happened  in  times  past,  without  the  factor  of  geo- 
graphical changes. 

Against  these  potentialities  of  the  future  we  cannot  thor- 
oughly tranquilize  ourselves  or  remove  misapprehensions 
without  a  thorough  investigation  of  the  following  historical 
questions :  the  conditions  which  are  normally  favorable  to  the 
diffusion  and  transmission  of  the  distinct  civilizations  repre- 
sented in  the  different  communities,  and  the  difference  or 
resemblance  to  be  noted  between  present  conditions  and 
past;  the  object  being  to  ascertain  whether,  in  the  existing 
situation,  there  are  not  certain  new  conditions  which  render 
less  possible,  and  perhaps  impossible,  a  repetition  of  those 
reactions  and  recessions  in  the  progress  of  great  masses  of 
humanity  (masses  embracing,  apparently,  the  most  impor- 
tant branches  of  the  race)  which  have  imperiled  or  delayed 
during  immense  intervals  the  general  labor  of  mankind,  and 
entailed  endless  recommencement  and  repetition.  After- 
ward as  a  practical  issue  of  this,  we  ought  to  determine  the 
actual  safeguards  necessary  in  order  that  this  function  of 
transmission  may  be  better  guaranteed  for  future  genera- 

tions. 

In  regard  to  the  first  question,  modern  science  already  pos- 
sesses certain  positive  knowledge  resulting  from  the  concrete 
investigation  of  given  historical  instances  of  the  transmis- 
sion process,  as  also  from  the  criticism  and  speculation  which 
has  been  accorded  the  phenomenon  in  connection  with  the 
comparative  method  of  investigation,  especially  in  regard  to 
the  legitimacy  of  deducing  and  presupposing  the  fact  of  a 
transmission  (without  previous  knowledge  or  detailed  in- 
vestigation of  the  case)  from  the  simple  fact  of  a  coincidence 
of  institutions. 1     It  should  not  be  forgotten,  however,  that 

1  The  same  may  be  said  of  the  Theory  of  Imitation  of  Tarde,  which  can 
only  be  applied  with  great  caution.    Imitation  is  a  phenomenon  of  diffusion. 

[302] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

for  historians  there  are  still  many  doubts  and  uncertainties 
in  the  verification  of  this  phenomenon  with  relation  to  events 
that  are  of  great  historical  importance,  the  study  of  which 
cannot  yet  be  considered  as  exhausted  or  reduced  to  definite 
conclusions.  A  definite  though  general  theory,  of  wide 
application  apart  from  the  specific  differences  of  each  par- 
ticular case,  cannot  strictly  be  established  except  after  a 
series  of  monographic  studies  of  other  data  in  connection 
with  this  process,  extending  over  as  wide  a  field  as  possible 
and  necessitating  what  has  still  to  be  a  long  and  complicated 
labor  before  generalizations  will  be  permissible. 

While  fully  appreciating  the  great  importance  and  inter- 
est of  these  investigations,  we  must  observe,  however,  that 
for  our  own  particular  purpose— In  connection,  that  is,  with 
the  problem  we  are  here  consldering-they  lose  much  of 
that  interest  when  we  come  to  the  second  of  our  questions— 
namely,  the  question  of  the  difference  or  resemblance  be- 
tween  past  conditions  and  present  in  regard  to  the  facility 
with  which  the  issues  and  achievements  of  civilization  may 
be  transmitted  and  secured  as  permanent;  for,  if  we  could 
be  certain  that  existing  conditions,  over  and  above  being 
m.ore  favorable  to  the  process  of  transmission,  actually  guar- 
antee and  safeguard  for  humanity  in  general  all  the  labors 
realized  in  its  service,  then  our  conclusions  In  regard  to  the 
first  question  are,  for  all  practical  purposes,  at  a  discount. 
In  effect,  without  further  parley,  It  is  actually  the  case  that, 
from  what  we  know  of  the  past  and  from  our  observations 
of  the  present,  there  are  enough  grounds  for  affirming  as  a 
definite  conclusion  that  existing  conditions  are,  indeed,  far 
more  propitious  than  at  any  other  period  of  history;  on  this 
there  is  no  longer  any  serious  doubt.    And  with  the  reassur- 
ance the  fact  brings  us,  we  may  satisfy  our  qualms,  confident 
that  what  we  are  accomplishing  to-day  will  not  be  wasted  in 

[303] 


. 


_iix     [■■ill  iiiiiiii 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

the  future,  and  that  the  fruit  of  present  labors  will  be  reaped 
by  our  successors.    We  are  aware,  also,  that  this  security  is 
due   chiefly  to   the   development   of   material   civilization, 
which,  indeed,  possesses  here  one  of  its  foremost  vindica- 
tions and  highest  claims  to  attention  and  furtherance;  for,  in 
augmenting  and   facilitating  the  means  of  communication 
between  communities,  it  is  not  only  approximating  but  at  the 
same  time  solidifying  them  in  a  bond  of  mutual  interests  for- 
ever widening  and  forever  becoming  more  closely  associated 
and  interlaced,  rendering  thus  more  feasible  and  rapid  the 
diffusion  of  that  culture  which,  from  being  self-centered  and 
destructible  as  in  the  old  days,  is  evolving  now  into  the  uni- 
versal and  the  permanent.     The  fact  of  life's  present  uni- 
formity, of  the  expansion  and  domination  of  a  common  type, 
and  even  of  the  same  forms  and  details  in  many  branches  of 
activity,  is  sufficient  evidence  for  this  contention ;  and  although 
it  may  be  resented  and  deplored  from  another— an  idealistic 
—  standpoint,  in  so  far  as  it  threatens  us  with  a  monotonous 
sameness  throughout  life,  destructive  of  the  personal  char- 
acter of  each  given  people,  it  stands  out  among  the  facts  of 
history  as  one  of  the  most  important  and  significant  circum- 
stances in  the  question  at  issue.     Concomitantly  with  this 
immense  attainment,  modern  times  have  witnessed  also  a 
wide  and  fruitful  labor  of  assimilation  which  applies  both  to 
the  modern  world  and  the  ancient.     For,  in  regard  to  the 
former,  the  modern  aspect,  material  civilization,  while  it 
spreads  and  implants  a  fixed  form  of  life  and  a  series  of 
common  industrial  appliances  disseminated  from  their  point 
of  origin  over  the  face  of  the  globe,  at  the  same  time,  and  as 
an  inevitable  issue  of  this  centrifugal  movement,  gathers  in 
and  abstracts  from  each  individual  person  or  community  of 
persons  the  fruits  of  the  original  genius  of  the  individual, 
further  developing  thereby  the  whole— that  is  to  say,  making 

[304] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

it  forever  richer  and  more  complex,   and  facilitating  the 
reciprocal  action  and  reaction  of  the  one  upon  the  other.    In 
regard  to  the  former  aspect,  the  amazing  renovations  in  his- 
torical knowledge  and  the  resurrection  of  so  many  peoples 
buried  for  centuries  from  human  ken,  and  for  this  reason 
useless  in  the  advancement  of  man's  labor,  have  enriched 
quite  suddenly,  or  in  a  space  of  time  so  short  that  it  is  almost 
negligible  as  such,  the  heritage  of  modern  civilization,  and 
enabled  us  to  reap  the  richest  fruits  of  defunct  civilizations 
of  the  past,  which  we  have  incorporated  in  our  own— to  the 
extent,  that  is,  of  all  that  Is  of  use  to  us,  whether  in  the  shape 
of  some  practical  element  of  utilitarian  service  or  some  edu- 
cational contribution  toward  our  imagination,  taste  or  ideal- 
ity.    We  have  only  to  compare  what  at  the  end  of  the 
eighteenth  century  was  known  of  Greece,  Egypt,  the  oriental 
civilizations,  and  even  of  Rome  itself,  as  regards  the  art, 
industry,  literature,  science  and  jurisprudence  of  these  coun- 
tries, with  the  information  now  at  our  disposal,  to  appreciate 
the  immense  advantage  which  In  many  matters  we  possess 
over  our  predecessors.    The  classical  restoration  movement 
initiated  in  the  Renaissance  has,  in  these  days,  developed  and 
augmented  in  a  manner  unhoped  for  and  amazing;  and  if  to 
this  we  add  the  deeper  and  more  extensive  penetration  we 
have  realized  into  so  many  other  epochs  of  the  past,  and 
from  which  so  much,  until  now  buried  and  forgotten,  has 
returned   to   enrich   our   civilization,— medieval   literature, 
primitive   art,   the  pre-Renaissance  philosophies,   etc.,— we 
realize  in  how  great  a  measure,  in  the  past  unparalleled, 
modern  civilization  embodies  the  civilization  of  all  history 
and  is  truly  universal,  truly  the  civilization  of  man.     And 
this  stupendous  achievement,  let  It  be  added.  Is  due  to  the 
historians,  the  disciples  of  a  school  of  study  whose  practical 
value  Is  so  often  superciliously  denied. 

1:305:] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

But  now,  when  all  this  is  said,  with  all  the  hope  and  reas- 
surance for  the  future  which  it  brings,  we  cannot  deny,  after 
an  analysis  of  our  feelings  on  the  subject,  that  we  are  not 
equally  at  ease  on  all  the  issues  it  embraces.     Although  it  is 
true  there  is  no  longer  any  doubt  as  to  the  persistence  of 
everything  which  signifies  material  progress  and  of  that  com- 
mon heritage,  scientific  and  literary,  which  now  seems  defi- 
nitely embodied  in  our  life,  we  are  not  equally  certain  as  to 
the  continuance  of  other  elements  of  our  civilization  more 
closely  dependent  on  changes  of  thought  and  conduct.    The 
material  progress  we  have  realized  is  so  intimately  asso- 
ciated with  primordial  necessities  of  human  life  and  with 
appetites— or,  if  you  prefer,  aspirations— inseparable  from 
human  nature,  such  as  the  competitive  stimulus  and  the  com- 
mercial factor,  the  craving  for  economic  profit  and  material 
comfort,  that  renunciation  of  these  things  seems  to  us  impos- 
sible outside  the  hypothesis  of  some  general  mental  aberra- 
tion in  mankind.     Nor  is  the  retainment  of  all  the  learning 
and  culture  elaborated  through  the  centuries,   and  of  the 
beauties  of  literature  and  art,  a  cause  for  anxiety  in  so  far 
as  such  a  process  of  retainment  is  purely  passive  in  character, 
while  the  inspiration  of  these  beauties  and  that  culture  is 
practically  inextinguishable  in  the  human  species.     But  in 
everything  that  is  influenced  by  opinion  such  as  is  not  secured 
on  the  bedrock  of  the  experimental  sciences,  or  in  which 
other  factors  are  at  work  in  the  form  of  speculative  concep- 
tions whose  foundation  is  rational  and  not  empirical,  or  of 
feelings  of  another  order  from  the  appetites  and  aspirations 
previously  referred  to,  a  good  deal  of  misgiving,  despite  the 
optimistic  outbursts  persistently  indulged  in,  has  to  be  con- 
fessed   after    considering    matters    impartially    and    scien- 
tifically.   Who,  for  example,  has  not  felt  the  possibility  that 
the  unmistakable  advances  we  have  realized  as  regards  social 

1:306:] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

and  political  organization,  in  the  general  province  of  law 
and  the  moral  conception  of  life,  may  not,  after  all,  be 
doomed  to  immolation  before  some  sudden  metamorphosis 
of  human  thought  and  opinion,  as  illogical,  according  to  our 
present  judgment,  as  you  like,  but  not  without  precedent  in 
the  history  of  many  countries,-embracing,  moreover,  widely 
extended  areas?  What  meditative  mind  has  not  experi- 
enced, at  one  time  or  another,  uneasiness  over  the  possibility 
of  the  general  orientation  of  modern  thought  being  finally 
supplanted  by  another,  to  the  entire  subversion  of  our  basic 
conception  of  the  world;  or  of  our  literature  and  art  sinking 
into  a  decadence  in  which  they  will  be  rendered  extravagant 

and  impotent? 

With  these  considerations  we  are  brought  to  another  ques- 
tion that  is  associated  with  this  theory  of  civilization- 
namely,  that  as  to  whether  all  the  orders  of  our  life  are 
following  a  necessarily  ascendent  path-that  is  to  say,  a 
course  of  indefinite  improvement,  considering  their  history 
as  a  whole  and  discarding  mere  temporary  setbacks;  or 
whether  there  are  not  certain  orders  which  are  exceptions  to 
this  rule,  different  and  distinct  in  character  from  those  sub- 
ject  to  a  continuous  progress;  whether,  moreover,  there  are 
not  others  whose  point  of  culmination  (in  man)  has  now 
already  been  attained  and  will  not  be  exceeded,  perhaps  not 
even  equaled,  in  the  future.  And,  as  a  natural  consequence 
of  the  comparisons  and  contrasts  necessitated  by  this  study, 
there  follows  yet  another  question  which  is  repeatedly  oc- 
cupying thinkers-namely,  the  question  of  a  proportion  or 
relative  development  between  the  distinct  reaches  of  human 
activity,  or,  broadly  speaking,  between  these  two  (to  be 
taken  as  embodying  the  two  main  divisions  of  the  facts  of 
civilization)  :  the  moral  order  and  the  material. 

Coming  to  a  closer  consideration  of  the  first  of  the  two 

[307:1 


I' 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

questions  raised,  we  shall  see  that  while  historical  investiga- 
tion has  enabled  us  to  determine  the  existence,  across  the 
ages,  of  a  fundamental  current  which,  in  spite  of  temporary 
deflections,  has  always,  in  the  long  run,  triumphed,  mount- 
ing now  higher  and  higher  in  the  conquest  of  Nature  and 
the  applications  to  human  necessities  of  her  elements  and 
forces,  expanding  in  the  sphere  of  social  organization  and  in 
the  direction  of  popular  liberties,  as  also  in  artistic  manifes- 
tation of  a  certain  order,— yet,  on  the  other  hand,  we  cannot 
say  the  same  of  all  the  provinces  of,  for  example,  art,  nor  of 
all  the  orders  of  scientific  research,  and  still  less  so  of  the 
problem  of  moral  conduct,  especially  as  regards  certain  of  its 
most  important  branches.     How  many  times  has  it  been 
asseverated  that  Greek  art,  in  certain  branches,  is  insuper- 
able, and  that  none  of  man  s  subsequent  creations  are  to  be 
compared  with  it,— not  excepting  those  of  this  modern  era, 
despite  the  higher  reaches  of  modern  culture  and  its  bound- 
less sources  of  nutrition  from  the  past?    Who  is  not  aware 
that,  in  spite  of  the  great  progress  of  philosophy  since  the 
Renaissance,  its  present  situation  is  still  fundamentally  in- 
separable from  the  doctrines  of  the  Greek  philosophers, 
whose  thought  we  have  not,  in  many  things,  so  much  as 
widened?     How  often  have  we  not  been  told  that  music  in 
the  great  German  classics  was  carried  to  its  apex,  both  tech- 
nical and  ideal?    Who  can  deny  that  modern  literature  is  far 
from  monopolizing  all  the  greatest  productions  of  literary 
art,  and  that  many  of  the  great  masterpieces  in  this  line  have 
been  the  work  of  the  ancients— a  fact  implying  that  the  line 
of  development  which  this  departure  is  following  is  not  sub- 
ject to  the  same  law  which  is  guiding  other  orders  and  un- 
mistakably urging  them  still  forward?    And  finally,  who  can 
escape  the  bitter  confession  that  moral  development  is  still 
exiguous,  that  customs  are  not  improving  all  around,  and 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

that  the  higher  ethical  doctrines  remain  untranslated  into 
action  in  the  practical  life  of  the  majority? 

Let  it  be  observed,  however,  at  the  outset,  that  there  is  a 
strong  possibility  of  error  in  these  affirmations  and  compari- 
sons, owing  to  the  influence  of  a  traditional  tendency,  still 
prevalent,  in  which  the  "classical"  is  seen  as  a  type  and 
standard  handed  down  to  us  from  the  past  as  something  per- 
fect and  insuperable,  by  which  we  have  unduly  limited  the 
future,  with  all  its  hidden  possibilities— possibilities  in  the 
way  of  new  departures  in  the  sphere  of  art,  thought,  origi- 
nality and  culture.     In  face  of  this  doubt  and  uncertainty 
arising  from  indefinite  and  what  are  for  us  mysterious  pos- 
sibilities of  new  departures  and  new  doctrines,  a  past  status 
of  perfection  loses  the  importance  it  would  otherwise  possess 
could  it  be  definitely  stated  that  never  in  the  future  will  this 
standard   either  be   superseded  or  equaled.      It  would  be 
sufficient,  as  regards  art  and  literature,  that  the  future  should 
produce  things  of  equal  supernal  beauty  to  the  great  mas- 
terpieces of  the  past,  although  the  ideal  which  inspires  them 
and  the  means  and  medium  of  their  expression  may  be  dif- 
ferent. 

Furthermore,  it  should  be  remembered  that  the  only  con- 
clusion of  any  practical  value  which  is  to  be  drawn  from  the 
fact— supposing  it  to  be  a  fact— that  in  certain  human  de- 
partments of  thought  the  goal  of  achievement  has  been  ar- 
rived at  in  past  ages-i.^.,  Greek  sculpture-would  be  that 
certain  branches  of  progress  are  more  easy  of  development 
than  others,  and  have  thus  been  exploited  and  exhausted, 
while  others  are  still  in  the  process  of  development.  The  im- 
mediate consequence  of  this  conclusion  in  its  influence  on  our 
conduct,  as  one  of  the  educative  results  of  knowledge,  would 
be  that  we  should  dedicate  the  greater  part  of  our  energies 
henceforward  to  developing  all  that  is  relatively  backward, 

1:309: 


k 

••i 


h 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

withdrawing  such  energies  to  a  great  extent  from  the  fully 
exploited  branches  whose  pursuit,  it  would  seem,  can  only  be 
attended  now  with  lesser  results.  Perhaps,  indeed,  in  certain 
modern  propensities,  in  certain  orientations  of  the  main 
body  of  humanity  to-day,  which  seems  to  be  cultivating  by 
choice  precisely  those  branches  which  are  only  imperfectly 
developed,  there  is  a  vague  but  effective  consciousness  of  this 

necessity. 

What  is  of  real  and  actual  gravity,  however,  is  the  fact  of 
the  enormous  disproportion  between  the  highest  results 
which  have  been  achieved  in  the  ethical  department  and 
those  of  the  other  orders.  This  is  an  historical  fact  which  is 
evident,  even  without  any  special  study  of  the  matter,  to  any- 
body, and  on  the  strength  of  which  we  may  divide  the  mani- 
festations of  human  life  into  two  groups:  one  in  which  are 
embodied  all  those  branches  which,  it  may  be  said,  have  on 
the  whole  expanded  and  developed  and  are  continuing  to 
develop  in  a  conspicuous  manner,  or  else  have  already  in  the 
past  attained  their  apex  of  perfection,  though  to-day  in  a 
state  of  collapse  and  effeteness,— manifestations  belonging 
to  the  artistic  and  intellectual  sphere,  or  representing  the 
material  civilization  which  has  resulted  from  man's  dominion 
over  nature  and  from  the  applications  of  science,  and  also  to 
certain  aspects  of  social  organization;  w^hile  on  the  other 
hand  is  the  group  which  embraces  the  element  of  moral  con- 
duct and  certain  other  directions  of  social  and  juridical  or- 
ganization, phenomena  which  either  have  not  developed  in 
any  perceptible  degree  or  are  obviously  behindhand  com- 
pared to  the  phenomena  included  in  the  first  group. 

It  would  be  superfluous  to  reopen  here  the  discussion 
which  years  ago,  when  the  literature  of  the  Philosophy  of 
History  was  flourishing  (that  literature  which  dazzled  and 
misled  so  many  people,  while  it  offered  little  that  was  of  real 

[3103 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

scientific  value),  raised  such  impassioned  argument  owing, 
perhaps,  to  the  radical  form  in  which  it  was  planted  and  the 
rash  manner,  disregardful  of  requisite  historical  data,  in 
which  it  was  approached,— the  discussion  of  the  question:  Is 
there  or  is  there  not  such  a  thing  as  moral  progress?    Such 
absolute  questions  it  will  be  a  matter  of  common  agreement 
to  discard  as  fruitless  because  no  one  doubts  the  fact  to- 
day that,  in  certain  aspects  of  his  moral  conduct,  social  and 
individual  man  has  actually  advanced,  and  that  the  practical 
ideal  which  is  being  realized  in  the  higher  circle  of  society  is 
superior  to  that  which  prevailed  in  such  circles  some  cen- 
turies ago.     And  simultaneously,  in  the  juridical  sphere,  in 
the  strict  meaning  of  the  term,  accepting  the  common  dis- 
tinction between  morality  and  law,  — a  distinction  which  is 
not  necessarily  exact,  — it  is  equally  beyond  doubt  that  justice 
is,  on  the  whole,  becoming  more  and  more  actual  in  many  of 
the  human  relations  it  affects. 

But  by  the  side  of  this  twofold  conviction  which  we  possess 
it  is  equally  unmistakable  that  the  moral  and  juridical  order 
still,  in  many  of  its  phases  and  even  in  the  most  advanced 
communities,  embraces  what  is  immoral  and  unjust,  and  that 
the  majority  of  individuals  are  likewise  immoral  and  unjust 
in  many  features  of  their  lives.  The  discouraging  impres- 
sion which  these  facts  produce  in  us  is  not  so  much  suggested 
by  the  evils  they  infer  as  by  their  exposure  of  the  inefficacy 
of  doctrines  and  ideals  proclaimed  and  effusively  embraced 
by  millions  of  human  beings  many  centuries  ago.  It  is  com- 
prehensible that  there  are  certain  sciences  which  have  not  at 
all  times  realized  the  perfection  and  development  they  have 
now  attained,  because  the  advance  of  these  sciences  has  fol- 
lowed from  the  grasp  of  certain  truths  which  have  only  lat- 
terly been  realized;  but  the  ethical  and  juridical  ideal.  In  its 
application  to  social  and  individual  life,  has  been  realized  In 

[311] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

« 

many  of  its  fundamental  aspects  since  immemorial  time,— 
yet,  nevertheless,  it  has  produced  only  the  most  exiguous 
effects  relatively  to  the  situation  which  preceded  its  adoption 
or  to  its  exigencies  as  an  ideal.  This  inefficacy  or  extremely 
limited  efficacy  of  the  moral  ideal  is  what  disheartens  the 
sincere  observer  and  at  times  causes  him  to  despair  of  the 
province  of  morality,  even  theoretically  admitting  the  devel- 
opment attained  in  the  other  provinces  of  life,  or  at  least  to 
demand  why  it  is  that  this  element  is  to  be  found  in  what  is 
perhaps  an  immense  inferiority  to  others,  and  is,  at  all 
events,  held  in  less  importance  among  the  problems  of  life. 

This  situation  is  explained,  according  to  modern  theories, 
on  the  hypothesis  that  moral  advancement  is  not  solely  de- 
pendent on  the  advancement  of  ethical  ideas,  but  also  on 
other  factors  belonging  to  other  orders— factors  which  in 
most  cases  have  made  their  appearance  long  after  the  actual 
ethical  ideal.  A  good  illustration  of  this  doctrine  is  Buckle's 
instance,  in  connection  with  war,  of  the  decline  of  the  warlike 
spirit  in  humanity.  For  Buckle,  as  is  known,  the  three  great 
causes  of  this  change  have  been :  the  invention  of  gunpowder, 
Adam  Smith's  book  on  the  "Wealth  of  Nations,"  and  the 
use  of  steam  in  land  and  maritime  communication;  that  is  to 
say,  three  factors  wholly  distinct  in  origin  and  character 
from  the  moral  sentiments  which,  at  first  sight,  would  have 
seemed  to  be  the  principal  causes  of  this  momentous  change. 
In  like  manner,  other  authors,  of  philosophic  affiliations 
very  different  from  those  of  Buckle,  have  shown  that  in 
the  abolition  of  slavery  in  Europe  and  in  the  betterment  of 
the  juridical  situation  of  the  land-laboring  classes,  moral 
motives  represented  only  an  exiguous  influence,  while  eco- 
nomic motives,  on  the  contrary,  were  paramount.^     These 

1  For  all  that  is  to  be  learned  from  Spain  in  this  matter,  reference  should 
be  had  to  the  standard  work  of  Eduardo  de  Hinojosa:  "The  Feudal  System 
and  the  Agrarian  Question  in  Cataluna,"  Madrid,  1905. 

[3123 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

and  many  other  historical  examples  appear  to  establish  the 
theory  of  the  school  in  question,  according  to  which  moral 
progress  is  made  dependent  on  scientific  development,  or  on 
the  changes  at  work  in  other  very  distinct  orders  of  life,— a 
theory  according  to  which  the  relatively  backward  situation 
of  the  moral  order  is  explained  by  this  observation  of  two 
facts— the  fact,  primarily,  of  this  same  dependence  of  posi- 
tion and  the  fact  of  the  personal  and  intransferable  quality 
of  moral  actions.     "Whereas  intellectual  acquisitions,"  says 
an  exponent  of  the  theory,  "are  transmitted  scrupulously 
from  one  generation  to  another  and  the  attainments  of  the 
moral  faculties  are  not  transmissible,  in  that  every  one  must 
practise  goodness  for  its  own  sake,  by  the  nature  of  it  good- 
ness is  essentially  personal  and  private,  and  even  the  good 
which  is  realized  by  the  purest  and  most  diligent  philanthropy 
is  of  limited  duration  and  can  only  benefit  a  comparatively 
small  number  of  people.    The  actions  of  the  bad  produce  a 
transient  evil;  those  of  the  good,  a  good  which  is  equally 
unenduring:  it  is  only  the  discoveries  of  the  great  thinkers 
which  subsist  eternally,  survive  the  ruin  of  empires  and  the 
fluctuation  of  beliefs,  follow  and  are  added  to  each  other  in 
succession,  and  stand  alone  immutable  amidst  the  ephemeral 
and  fugitive,  serving  as  landmarks  In  the  progress  of  hu- 
manity." 

There  is  of  course  obvious  exaggeration  in  some  of  the 
above  affirmations,  for  neither  is  the  moral  element  so 
changeable  as  is  suggested,— a  certain  sediment  always  hav- 
ing persisted  and  affirmed  itself  through  history,-nor  can  it 
be  said  that  nothing  of  what  Is  attained  in  this  order  can  be 
added  to  previous  attainments  in  the  way  that  intellectual 
advancements  are  recorded  and  accumulated;  nor  even  is 
there  entire  justification  for  the  theory  that  the  effect  of  a 
moral  effort  can  only  be  passing  in  duration,  for  such  an 

[313] 


\j 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

effort,  when  it  becomes  crystallized  in  a  social  labor  or  social 
institution  or  in  a  reform  of  customs,  may  be  prolonged 
through  great  periods  of  time  and  become  incorporated  in 
the  general  conduct  of  a  people  almost  finally  and  unalterably, 
descending  and  extending  to  an  immense  number  of  human 
beings.  These  discrepancies,  however,  do  not  invalidate  the 
general  truth  of  the  theory  as  regards  the  intervention  of 
non-moral  factors— factors,  that  is,  of  a  different  physical 
and  spiritual  order— in  the  achievement  of  advances  in  the 
actual  domain  of  morality,  nor  the  force  of  the  theory  as  an 
explanation  of  this  same  disproportion  in  development  which 
we  are  concerned  with— this  albeit  that  it  is  not  a  matter  of 
such  certainty  that  the  inevitable  action  of  the  intellectual 
over  the  moral  implies  an  absolute  subordination  of  the  lat- 
ter to  the  former,  in  so  far  as  the  influence  exerted  by  the 
human  intelligence  over  human  conduct  does  not  invariably 
signify  the  actual  suggestion  of  new  lines  of  conduct,  but 
represents  in  many  cases  merely  the  thought  and  reflection 
granted  certain  principles  of  life  defended  by  the  moralists, 

—  reflections  that  have  resulted  in  a  conviction  of  the  essen- 
tial necessity  of  the  principles  in  question ;  — intellectual 
progress,  in  the  strict  meaning  of  the  term,  thus,  apart  from 
all  it  represents  in  its  own  sphere,  being  converted  through 
this  relationship  into  a  means  for  serving  and  furthering  the 
end  of  most  importance— the  object,  that  is,  of  moral  prog- 
ress. The  fallacy  in  the  argument  that  because  intellectual 
advancement,  as  is  contended  in  this  theory  and  in  fact  ad- 
mitted by  us,  is  the  impulse  of  civilization,  it  has  for  this 
reason  to  be  considered  the  measure  and  criterion  of  it,  is 
evident  when  we  consider  that  progress  does  not  consist 
merely  in  the  declaration  of  principles  or  in  the  act  of  men- 
tally appreciating  them,  but  in  their  practice  and  realization 

—  assuming,  that  is,  that  the  first  and  basic  necessity  in  life  is 

[314] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

goodness;  the  contradiction,  moreover,  between  belief  and 
conduct,  between  thought  and  action,  is  sufficiently  glaring  in 
our  lives  to  save  us  from  the  error  of  deducing  the  purity  of 
the  latter  as  an  inevitable  issue  of  the  truth  and  beauty  of 

the  former. 

But  now,  so  far  as  our  main  question  is  concerned,— the 
actual  question  under  discussion, -the  fact  remains,  whether 
we  hold  this  theory  to  be  valid  or  regard  the  two  spheres  in 
question— the  scientific  and  the  moral— as  independent,  or  at 
least  independent  in  many  of  their  aspects,  that  we  are  still 
left  with  the  same  doubt  as  we  started  with,  though  em- 
bodied in  two  forms.  On  the  first  hypothesis-that  of  our 
accepting  the  theory— it  is  necessary  to  ask:  Up  to  what  limit 
will  scientific  development  be  able  to  influence  the  moral 
conduct  for  whose  growth  it  is  responsible?  In  the  second 
case  we  are  faced  always  with  this  question:  Is  the  present 
disproportion  between  the  development  and  evolution  of 
both  spheres  to  be  permanent;  will  it,  in  time,  become  dimin- 
ished, or  is  It  to  be  augmented  still  further  in  the  future? 
And  in  either  case,  what  is  the  impression,  optimistic  or  pes- 
simistic, that  we  are  left  with  after  the  study  of  all.  In  this 
connection,  that  history  up  to  the  present  has  afforded  us? 

But  now  again,  it  is  not  impossible— in  fact,  it  is  very 
probable— that  the  question  is  still  imperfectly  stated  owing 
to  the  need  of  a  further  discrimination.  In  short,  are  we  so 
very  certain  that  all  the  actions  usually  comprehended  in  the 
sphere  of  moral  conduct  belong  to  the  same  order  and  des- 
tiny? Does  not  historical  observation,  on  the  contrary, 
suggest  that  there  are  two  distinct  classes  of  manifestations 
in  this  order  whose  difference  may  be  said  to  have  found 
expression  in  the  distinct  directions  they  have  taken  across 
history?  This  very  obvious  distinction,  already  noted  in  a 
preceding  argument,  that  exists  between  certain  features,  on 

[315] 


-If 
w. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

the  one  hand,  of  social  morality,  embracing  determined 
aspects  of  human  relationship— orders  that  have  developed 
in  moral  status,  and  become  purified,  possessing  what  is  per- 
haps an  inexhaustible  capacity  for  continued  purification  and 
development— moral  attainments  such  as  honor,  tolerance, 
veracity,  impartiality,  etc.,— between  these  and  other  feat- 
ures of  social  and  individual  morality,  as  far  as  the  distinc- 
tion is  possible,  which  are  plainly  making  no  headway  and 
in  which  the  element  of  evil  is  as  prevalent  to-day  as  cen- 
turies ago,  is  surely  a  powerful  argument  in  favor  of  the 
theory  that  there  is  one  branch  of  our  moral  life  which  is 
capable  of  development  and  another  in  which  all  progress 
seems  impossible,  or  at  least  has  seemed  so  up  to  the  present. 
That  this  is  the  case  is,  in  my  opinion,  beyond  doubt:  I  be- 
lieve that  the  experience  of  history  demonstrates  with  the 
utmost  clarity  that  there  are  moral  inclinations  in  our  nature 
which  can  actually  be  checked— which  have,  indeed,  been 
suppressed  among  certain  communities,  with  a  resulting 
transformation  in  popular  customs ;  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
there  are  others,  always  precisely  the  same,  which,  subsisting 
as  they  do  in  passions  apparently  ineradicable,  dominated 
and  subdued  by  only  a  limited  number  of  people,  not  in 
each  case  the  same  elements,  have  not  been  subject  to  this 
rectification  and  continue  as  sources  of  evil.  Such  is  the  case 
with  envy,  anger,  cupidity,  ambition  and  the  craving  for 
luxury,  and  a  whole  series  of  other  tendencies  elemental  in 
our  nature  whose  products  in  the  form  of  misery  and  pri- 
vation are  utterly  horrifying  as  represented  to  us  by  modern 
sociologists,  psychologists  and  criminologists,  such  abomina- 
tions in  our  days  scarcely  being  considered  possible. 

These,  then,  are  the  actual  facts  of  the  case,  the  results  of 
historical  investigation,  and  beyond  the  field  of  these  facts, 
on  any  scientific  basis,  we  cannot  venture;  for  every  predic- 

1:316] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

tion  is  merely  a  hypothesis,  a  problematical  supposition  with 
relation  to  an  uncertain  future.     Human  aspiration,  how- 
ever, does  not  resignedly  surrender  to  a  simple  recognition 
of  the  facts  as  they  now  are  and  have  been  in  the  past— in  a 
recognition,  that  is  to  say,  of  history.     Hope  ventures  into 
the  belief  that  it  will  also  be  possible  to  rectify,  finally,  that 
which  has  seemed  incorrigible,  to  subdue  those  forces  which 
up  to  the  present  have  been  irrepressible,  and  so  to  subdue 
them  that  the  change  shall  constitute  a  social  triumph,  in- 
corporated as  a  definite  conquest  in  the  civilizations,  first  of 
the  most  advanced  communities,  and  finally  of  all.     Such  a 
labor,  in  fact,  if  we  come  to  think  of  it,  embodies  the  car- 
dinal problem  of  education,  and  it  is  on  the  appreciation  of 
this  problem  in  the  alternative  attitude  of  optimism  or  pes- 
simism that  depends  an  important  difference  in  the  prevail- 
ing scholastic  system.    ^'Education  will  do  everything!''  or, 
"Education  is  subject  to  impassable  limits  in  human  nature 
generally  and  in  each  individual  case  in  particular!''     Such 
are  the  two  conflicting  statements.    The  second  bases  itself 
on  the  concrete  data  of  experience,  the  first  on  a  generous 
confidence  in  the  perfectibility  of  human  nature  and  the 
efficacy  of  method;   and  so  inspiring  is  the  conception  it 
awakens  in  us  of  the  future  that  it  has  won  the  powerful  sup- 
port of  great  men  like  Goethe  and  Guyau.     Although  the 
main  course  of  pedagogy  is  to-day  following  another  direc- 
tion, refusing  to  admit  the  omnipotence  of  education,  it  is 
certain,  for  the  moment,  that  any  absolute  and  categorical 
answer  to  the  question  will  be  problematical.    This  question 
the  advances  of  psychology,  social  and  individual,  may  enable 
to  be  answered  in  the  future.    At  present  the  most  we  can  do 
is  to  formulate  the  problem. 

But  this  same  uncertainty  and  doubt  which  arise,  on  the 
one  hand,  from  the  weakness  of  our  hypothesis  respecting 

[3173 


I 


<}^ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

the  future,  and,  on  the  other,  from  the  results  of  our  study 
of  the  past,  serves  at  any  rate  to  bring  us  to  grips  with  the 
urgent  and  dominating  question:  What  is  it  that  is  of  most 
importance  in  life?  If  mankind  is  not  improving  morally, 
what  value  is  there  in  the  other  branches  of  his  progress? 
For  what  do  they  serve  but  as  a  merely  superficial  satisfac- 
tion and  a  delusive  mask  to  the  virtual  wretchedness  in  which 
the  immense  majority  of  individuals  live? 

Let  us  now  fearlessly  approach  this  question,  which,  al- 
though, like  others  we  have  been  dealing  with,  is  apparently 
disassociated  from  an  investigation  properly  speaking  his- 
torical, is  as  a  matter  of  fact  essentially  allied  to  such  a  study. 
The  question  is  inevitably  associated  with  the  ideal  of  life 
which  ranks  the  ethical  factor  (and  quite  rightly  so,  no 
doubt)  at  the  head  of  all,  maintaining  that,  as  compared 
with  this,  material  or  purely  intellectual  advantages  are  of 
little  value;  while,  for  another  thing,  it  presupposes  that  all 
the  elements,  both  material  and  spiritual,  of  human  life  have 
necessarily  to  be  equally  perfectible.  As  a  result  of  this 
double  supposition  every  deficiency  in  the  moral  order  fos- 
ters, it  is  clear,  discouragement,  pessimism  or  censure,  with 
all  the  perplexities  that  historical  data  awaken  with  regard 
to  the  disproportion  between  the  march  of  the  two  orders. 
But  the  question  to  be  considered  is  whether,  while  admitting 
the  first  supposition  (for  me  it  is  beyond  doubt,  and  in  fact  I 
believe  most  firmly  that  the  main  value  and  significance  of 
our  advances  in  the  intellectual  sphere  and  the  material  con- 
sists in  such  assistance  as  they  provide  for  the  juridical  and 
moral  element  in  its  task  of  facilitating  a  real  understanding 
of  the  world  and  the  subdual  of  natural  impulse) ,  there  is  not 
a  great  error  in  the  second.  Would  it  not  appear  certain  that, 
distinguishing  as  we  do  between  two  spheres  or  groups  of 
actions   and  relationships  in  that  province  of  civilization 

[318;] 


i 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

whose  backwardness  we  are  discussing,  we  should  confine 
ourselves,  without  embarking  on  the  impossible,  to  the  per- 
fecting of  those  elements  which  are  perfectible,  according  to 
our  evidence  from  history,  while  on  the  other  hand  recog- 
nizing, and  resigning  ourselves  to  the  admission,  that  there 
are  other  elements  which  lack  this  capacity  of  growth,  and 
in  respect  of  which  the  only  feasible  course,  with  human  na- 
ture as  it  is,  is  to  limit  their  scope  for  evil,  redeeming  the 
maximum  number  of  individual  cases,  and,  in  short,  dimin- 
ishing the  deplorable  influence  they  exercise  (it  bemg  im- 
possible to  suppress  them),  as  is  being  done  to-day  with 
many  of  them  by  means  of  legislation,  police,  prisons  and 
reformatories  such  as  are  worth  the  name,  and  even  medical 
treatment  in  its  particular  province  ? 

If  we  were  to  take  this  course  and  bow  to  the  inevitable, 
we  should  be  relieved  once  and  for  all  of  the  warring  pre- 
occupation over  an  impossible  ideal,  over  the  incompatibility 
between  a  belief  in  this  ideal  and  our  utter  failure  to  accom- 
plish it;  and  this  relief,  freeing  us  from  the  despair  which  is 
born  of  failure,  would  enable  us  to  direct  the  best  of  our 
energies  toward  what  is  feasible,  discarding  from  the  field  of 
historical  investigation  problems  which  have  ceased  to  be 
problems.    And  then,  indeed,  our  whole  theory  of  civiliza- 
tion, springing  from  a  recognition  of  the  facts  of  history  and 
the  undoubted  progress  realized  in  the  majority  of  our  ac- 
tivities, as  also  of  the  fundamental  orientation  which  the 
whole  of  human  history  seems  to  contain  below  the  surface 
of  its  racial  differences,-an  orientation  which  is  not  preju- 
dicial to  the  original  genius,  necessary  as  long  as  harmless, 
of  each  social  entity  and  group,-would  have  as  a  practical 
result  for  the  present  and  the  future  the  ever  intenser  appli- 
cation of  those  means  and  processes  by  which,  up  to  the  pres- 
ent, progress  has  been  realized,  especially  with  the  object  of 

n3i9a 


I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

accelerating  the  march  of  those  phases  of  progress  which  are 
behindhand,  and  of  maintaining  the  equilibrium  In  which  the 
development  of  one  order  will  not  be  sacrificed  to  that  of 
another,  either  in  dragging  humanity  into  a  life  of  egoism 
for  a  more  or  less  considerable  number  of  people  merely 
voluptuous  and  sybaritical,  or  in  depreciating  intellectual  and 
material  evolution  in  favor  of  an  esthetic  ideal  and  moral 
standard,  to  which  mankind  is  to  be  converted,  incompatible 
for  society  with  all  the  other  achievements  it  has  realized. 

Well,  now,  if  we  reflect  on  the  aspirations  of  contem- 
porary civilization  as  they  are  manifested  and  expressed,  we 
shall  see,  as  was  mentioned  before,  that  all  these  manifesta- 
tions affirm  the  resolve  to  secure  and  conserve  the  material 
civilization  now  flourishing,  to  augment  and  at  the  same 
time  disseminate  It,  embracing  the  widest  number  of  people 
and  thus  converting  it  from  the  monopoly  of  the  few  into  the 
heritage  of  the  majority,  and,  If  possible,  of  every  one;  also, 
that  this  same  centrifugal  tendency  Is  to  be  observed  in  the 
sphere  of  intellectual  culture,  forever  seeking  to  penetrate 
more  widely  the  masses  at  the  same  time  that  it  is  perfecting 
the  conditions  of  the  higher  investigation  which  is  reserved 
for  the  chosen  few,  but  open  to  humanity  in  general  in  the 
glory  of  Its  issues  and  conclusions.  And  concomitantly  we 
shall  observe  that,  alike  in  the  flower  of  humanity  and  In  the 
surging  masses,  there  is  a  cry  and  clamor  for  the  ethical 
basis  to  life,  a  demand  for  the  reign  of  justice  in  the  sphere 
of  jurisprudence,  of  the  good  in  the  sphere  of  morality,  these 
being  the  things  which  are  our  only  guarantee  against  the 
tragedy  of  a  life  of  hatred,  tears  and  curses,— in  search  of 
these  things,  however,  always  in  the  consciousness,  given  an 
impartial  recognition  of  experience,  that  there  is  a  surplus  of 
evil  still  undominated,  which  is  probably  indomitable,  and 
which  embodies  the  unavoidable  lot  of  human  Imperfections, 
human  limitations,  which  are  defiant  of  human  will. 

[320;] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


» 


Third  Lecture 

THE  METHODS  OF  EXTENDING  CIVILIZATION 

AMONG  THE  NATIONS 

WE  were  saying  in  the  preceding  lecture  that  the  gen- 
eral problem  of  human  history-or,  in  other  words, 
of  civilization-embraces  two  classes  of  questions.  The  first 
of  these  we  have  endeavored  to  answer  in  the  before-men- 
tioned lecture.  The  second,  although  it  has  been  the  subject 
of  many  previous  allusions,  we  shall  now  answer  more  di- 
rectly, in  order  to  arrive  at  the  treatment  of  the  concrete 
question  in  reference  to  Spain. 

We  must  bear  in  mind  that  our  object  is  to  ascertam  by 
what  methods  civilization  is  evolved,  and  what  is,  in  conse- 
quence, the  best  course  to  adopt  in  order  to  strengthen  and 

advance  it.  . 

Passing  over  the  beginnings  of  history,  when  each  family 
or  human  group  (if  we  admit  the  polygenetic  theory)  or  the 
family  nucleus  (if  we  accept  the  monogenetic  theory)  either 
must  have  been  self-taught  and  have  had  to  select  for  itself 
the  most  important  lessons  which  nature  offered,  or  must 
have  arrived  at  the  principles  involved  through  the  inventive 
power  of  human  intelligence,  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  in- 
stances of  autodidacticism,  collective  and  individual,  are  the 
exception,  and  that  when  they  do  appear  they  have  but  a 
limited  field  of  development  and  leave  no  lasting  impression 
if  they  remain  in  the  isolation  in  which  they  were  conceived. 

The  general  law  of  civilization,  as  in  education  (and, 
strictly  speaking,  are  they  not  the  same?),  is  reciprocal  influ- 
ence and  mutual  teaching.    Those  who  teach  others  are  at 

1:321:1 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

the  same  time  taught.  There  is  a  continual  ebb  and  flow  of 
suggestions,  corrections,  imitations  and  reflected  experiences, 
by  which  each  individual  profits  more  or  less  according  to  his 
power  of  assimilation  and  reaction.  This  law  fulfils  itself  in 
each  group,  acting  between  individual  and  individual,  be- 
tween individual  and  group,  and  vice  versa.  The  same 
process  takes  place  between  group  and  group,  although  it 
may  be  possible  that  during  the  centuries  one  group,  or  a 
combination  of  groups,  has  become  isolated  and  has  con- 
tinued to  develop  an  acquired  impulse  by  virtue  of  the  con- 
tinuous growth  of  human  powers  and  the  more  than 
geometrical  progression  of  their  advance.  The  latter  seems 
to  have  been  the  case  in  primitive  America. 

This  law  takes  effect  without  the  knowledge  of  those  it 
influences,  and  even  against  their  will,  as  happens,  for  in- 
stance, between  hostile  peoples  separated  by  mutual  hatred 
and  respective  interests,^  or  as  occurs  with  those  peoples 
who  attempt  to  isolate  themselves  from  their  neighbors  (as 
though  this  could  be  accomplished  even  should  all  the  laws 
of  the  world  seem  not  only  to  sanction  but  to  command  it 
under  a  thousand  penalties).  Aside  from  the  fact  that  this 
law  invariably  works  itself  out  naturally,  man  applies  it 
reflectively.  He  civilizes  individuals  through  education 
(schools,  academies,  etc.).  Nations  he  civilizes  sometimes 
by  imposing  upon  them  a  regime  which  influences  the  great 
majority  {e.^.,  the  process  of  Romanizatlon  of  the  provinces 
in  so  far  as  this  result  was  intended  and  sought  after  by  the 
Romans  themselves),  sometimes  through  Individuals,  these 
individuals  being  chosen,  as  in  the  modern  method  of  award- 
ing scholarships  for  study  and  travel,  to  learn  at  first  hand 
the  history  and  customs  of  peoples  who  are  considered  more 

1  For  example,  in  the  case  of  Mussulmans  and  Christians  in  medieval 
Spain,  vho,  notwithstanding  their  constant  warfare,  influenced  each  other  to 
a  great  extent. 


"m. 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 
advanced,  in  order  that  the  knowledge  thus  acquired  may  be 
diffused  throughout  the  student's  own  country. 

In  this  way  the  civilization  of  each  group  continues  to  pro- 
gress impelled  by  that  which  each  group  receives  from  the 
other  groups  and  by  that  which  originated  within  the  group 
itself.    The  absence  of  either  of  these  two  factors  would  dis- 
turb the  equilibrium  of  the  civilizing  process,  since  to  mflu- 
ence  and  to  teach,  a  people  must  have  created  somethmg, 
and  even  that  people  which  has  created  nothing  equal  to  the 
productions  of  others,  must  have  in  its  mental  composition 
an  original  element  on  which  to  base  and  mold  mto  charac- 
teristic form  those  qualities  borrowed  from  its  fellow  bemgs. 
A  people  lacking  this  original  element  (which  in  its  turn  will 
convert  a  people  into  an  active  factor  in  the  common  work 
of  civilization)  becomes  weakened  and  atrophied  as  does  a 

disused  organ. 

Since  civilization  and  education  are  essential  factors  in 
every  case,  this  question  immediately  arises:  Is  it  right  to 
impose  civilization  by  force?    In  education  this  question  is 
presented  in  the  discussion  concerning  "obligatory  learning 
imposed  upon  the  child,  although  he  may  not  desire  it   be- 
cause his  resistance  to  it  (if  he  does  resist)  is  the  result  of 
his  Ignorance  of  the  fundamental  Importance  of  education  m 
his  life.    Had  the  child  as  clear  a  conception  of  its  value  as 
the  adult  man  usually  possesses,  he  himself  would  ask  that  he 
be  educated  and  would  demand  this  as  a  right,  in  the  same 
way  that  he  would  demand  the  fulfilment  of  his  right  to  be 
provided  with  the  necessities  of  his  material  life,  for  which, 
in  his  earliest  years,  he  could  only  ask  by  signs  and  cries  (at 
times  he  even  refused  them),  but  which,  nevertheless,  were 
not  denied  him  because  of  this. 

Let  us  now  consider  the  problem  in  its  bearing  upon  the 
relations  among  peoples.    Probably  ever  since  humanity  has 


If, 


I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

existed  and  groups  of  men  have  fought  among  themselves 
for  a  thousand  causes  more  or  less  clear,  in  the  discussion  of 
the  motives  which  led  to  aggression  men  have  resorted, 
whenever  the  circumstances  offered  a  semblance  of  justifica- 
tion, to  the  argument  that  this  aggression  was  entered  upon 
in  the  interest  of  culture  and  education.  In  some  cases  this 
interest  manifested  itself  in  connection  with  religion  {e.g.^ 
in  recognizing  as  a  duty  the  conversion  of  infidel  nations, 
pagans,  etc.,  and  their  introduction  to  the  true  faith)  ;  in 
others,  the  argument  had  to  do  with  the  general  welfare  of 
humanity,  which  was  being  jeopardized  by  the  existence  of 
peoples  ignorant,  backward,  fanatic,  opposed  to  all  innova- 
tion, etc.,  incapable  of  developing  with  intelligent  effort  the 
resources  offered  by  their  own  soil,— peoples,  in  short,  whose 
continued  unproductivity  justified  the  interference  of  the  rest 
of  mankind;  others  alleged  that  humanity  was  imperiled  by 
the  existence  of  peoples  stubbornly  opposed  to  the  recogni- 
tion of  those  fundamental  rights  of  man  without  which  com- 
munity life  and  social  relations  are  impossible.  This  latter 
argument  is  of  recent  origin;  indeed,  it  is  the  child  of  our 
own  epoch,  and  has  come  to  replace  almost  entirely  the 
argument  of  religion,  just  as  that  of  religion  replaced  to  a 
certain  extent  the  argument  of  the  superiority  or  inferiority 
of  peoples  and  individuals  which  was  used  to  explain  slavery 
in  classic  times,  and  which  was  even  advanced  by  certain 
philosophers  of  the  Renaissance  w^hen  referring  to  the 
American  aborigines. 

Apparently  we  have  before  us  a  theory  analogous  to  that 
on  which  obligatory  education  is  based.  Nations,  like  chil- 
dren, must  be  taught  to  realize  the  importance  of  their  mis- 
sion; if  they  fail  to  educate  themselves  voluntarily,  others 
must  intervene  in  their  affairs  in  order  to  raise  them  to  the 
level  of  culture  they  are  capable  of  attaining.     Thus,  the 

1:324] 


1 


'     BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

most  civilized  discharge  a  tutelary  function,  aiding  and  co- 
operating toward  the  common  good.  Of  the  two  forces 
working  in  humanity,  one  to  advance  all  civilization,  the 
other  to  bring  about  the  sovereignty  and  independence  of 
individual  states,  the  former  is,  in  the  theory,  the  stronger- 
the  usefulness  of  the  latter  being  destroyed  when  it  serves,  as 
it  does  here,  merely  to  maintain  a  group  of  men  outside  the 
established  order  and  conditions  of  civilized  life. 

If  this  theory  were  correct,  we  should  have  an  example  of 
a  method  of  civilization  distinct  from  the  two  common  to 
humanity:  viz.,  individual  effort  and  the  normal  and  pacific 
influence  of  others  (if  this  influence  is  not  rejected  or  delib- 
erately  sought  after) .    It  would  be,  simply,  the  employment 
of  the  coercive  method  when  the  voluntary  method  was  not 
spontaneously  followed,  and  all  that  would  remain  for  us  to 
discuss  would  be  whether  this  method  may  righttully  be 
employed,  or  whether,  on  the  contrary,  there  is  included 
among  the  prerogatives  of  a  people's  liberty  the  right  to 
remain  indefinitely  barbarous,  uncivilized,  or  backward  and 
markedly  inferior  to  the  majority  who  feel  the  impulse  to- 
ward civilization,-the  right,  in  short,  to  be  an  obstacle  pre- 
venting  the    growth    of   this    civilization   in    strength,    its 
acquirement  of  new  methods  and  its  extension  over  the  en- 

tire  world.  . 

But  even  if  we  accept  the  theory  simply  as  such  and  with- 
out raising  any  difficulties,  history  provides  us  with  this 
extremely  powerful  argument  against  it :  If  obligatory  educa- 
tion presupposes  a  compulsion,  this  compulsion  is  not  used  to 
abuse  the  child,  to  diminish  his  rights,  to  take  possession  of 
what  is  his,-in  other  words,  to  do  him  harm,-but  to  por- 
tion out  to  him  a  benefit  in  a  form  equally  good.  The  theory 
referred  to,  as  has  already  been  noted  in  pointing  out  its 
origin,  is  only  applied  to  peoples  in  the  form  of  conquest. 


I     1 


^1 


v 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

And,  even  supposing  that  it  is  not  a  disguise  for  the  mere 
desire  for  mastery,  the  form  through  which  it  manifests  it- 
self usually  bears  in  its  train  conditions  which  render  the 
theory  worthless.  In  fact,  those  who  have  recourse  to  it  as 
an  excuse  to  interfere  in  the  life  of  a  nation,  to  seize  its  ter- 
ritory and  to  direct  its  affairs,  are  not  in  the  habit  of  deciding 
upon  this  course  for  the  good  of  that  nation  (this  is  the  fact, 
no  matter  what  naine  may  be  given  to  the  intervention),  but 
egotistically  for  their  own  benefit  (to  take  advantage  of  the 
natural  and  industrial  wealth  of  the  vanquished  nation,  to 
provide  room  for  expansion,  or  through  pure  delight  in 
domination,  etc.)  ;  or  at  least  these  considerations  take  first 
place,  while  the  task  of  education  is  left  very  much  in  the 
background,  or  is  confined  to  mere  contact  with  that  in  which 
the  conqueror  is  superior;  that  is  to  say,  the  tutelary  mission 
of  cooperation  and  of  the  regeneration  of  the  less  developed 
neighbor  is  subordinated  to  the  acquisition  of  those  things 
which  contribute  peculiarly  to  the  advantage  of  the  con- 
queror, or  at  least  it  does  not  occupy  the  preeminent  position 
w^hich  befits  it;  and  instead  of  a  work  of  love,  of  concord,  of 
mutual  effort,  it  becomes  a  work  of  hatred,  of  violence,  and 
of  plunder  more  or  less  dissimulated. 

If  it  should  be  objected  that  in  such  a  case  the  end  justifies 
the  means,  since  in  the  end  the  less  advanced,  conquered 
people,— the  Roman  provinces,  for  example,  — assimilating 
the  advantages  of  the  new  civilization,  will  rise  to  the  level 
of  its  conqueror,— if  this  objection  is  presented,  we  may 
answer  that  neither  is  this  always  the  case  (for  there  are 
many  inferior  peoples  who  have  never  risen  to  the  level  of 
their  conquerors,  but  have  been  absorbed  by  them  and  so  lost 
their  own  identity),  nor  is  violence,  ordinarily  carried  to 
bloody  limits,  the  proper  road  to  education.  This  deplora- 
ble result  is  brought  about  sometimes  through  lack  of  tact  on 

[326] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

the  part  of  the  "educator,''  sometimes  through  resistance  on 
the  part  of  those  whom  he  is  attempting  to  educate.  It  will 
suffice  to  recall  in  this  connection  the  thousands  of  victims  of 
the  Roman  conquest  in  the  Iberian  peninsula,-victims  who 
cannot  be  forgotten  even  in  the  light  of  the  superior  culture 
which  was  finally  forced  upon  the  descendants  of  those 
sacrificed.  And  as  it  was  effected  then,  so  it  has  continued  to 
be  effected  through  all  history,  and  so  it  is  still  effected  in 

our  own  times. 

The  question,  then,  immediately  arises:  Is  it  possible  to 
accomplish  this  by  another  method?    Is  it  possible  to  bring 
into  the  field  of  what  is  considered  the  more  advanced  civil- 
ization any  nation  whatever,  without  stirring  up  a  conflict 
animated  by  that  very  resistance  to  improvement  which  is  the 
result  of  their  ignorance,  and  without  this  conflict  degener- 
ating into  bloody  disputes  and  plunderings?     Or,  in  other 
terms,  is  it  possible  to  educate  in  the  same  way   (that  is, 
through  the  action  of  love  and  kindness)   as  one  would  a 
child  who  fails  to  lend  himself  willingly  to  education,  a  peo- 
ple which  does  not  desire  progress?     In  my  opinion  this 
question  cannot  be  answered  in  the  abstract.     We  lack  suf- 
ficient historical  data  to  give  a  well-founded  answer,  for  all 
the  material  which  we  do  possess  is  based  on  contrary  pro- 
ceedings :  the  conqueror  has  always  commenced  by  troubling 
and  molesting,  and  has  thus  given  a  motive  for  the  resis- 
tance.    Some  exceptions  which  we  might  recall,  but  which 
came  to  nothing  (I  have  in  mind  the  attempt  of  the  Padre 
Las  Casas  in  Cumana),  have  usually  followed  bloody  con- 
flicts, and  it  is  impossible  to  say  what  they  might  have  ac- 
complished by  themselves  if  they  had  been  employed  from 
the  start.    That  very  division  of  mankind  into  peoples  stub- 
born and  warlike  and  peoples  docile  and  submissive  in  the 
case  of  intervention,  which  the  conquerors  have  been  accus- 


M 


I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

tomed  to  make,  is  in  itself  suspicious.  We  cannot  be  certain 
that  the  first  classification  was  not  often  an  excuse  for  the 
violent  proceedings  which  the  invaders  themselves  initiated. 
There  is,  moreover,  a  factor  in  the  problem  v^^hen  dealing 
with  nations  which  greatly  complicates  the  question  and 
forces  it  into  the  field  of  violence,  although  this  may  not  be 
the  intention  of  the  one  who  intervenes.  This  factor  is  the 
total  or  partial  loss  of  independence  which  the  intervention 
of  a  foreign  power  always  presupposes,  and  which,  no  mat- 
ter how  slight  it  is  alleged  to  be,  bears  down  upon  and 
hampers  its  victims,  the  more  severely  the  nearer  they  find 
themselves  to  that  state  of  civilization  in  which  liberty  is 
fastidious  and  does  not  even  recognize  the  ideal  restrictions 
which  separate  and  distinguish  it  from  free  will  and  the  most 
absolute  personal  autocracy.  In  the  case  of  the  child  forced 
to  attend  school  there  is  a  loss  of  independence  as  he  under- 
stands it;  but  his  protests  may  be  overruled  and  his  struggles 
are  so  insignificant  and  ephemeral  that  they  leave  no  traces. 
The  protest  of  a  people,  on  the  contrary,  is  not  so  easily 
overcome,  and  is  strong  enough  to  bring  about  the  violent 
conflict  whose  suppression  serves  to  accentuate  the  hatred 
and  increase  the  tyranny.  Since  even  the  slightest  interfer- 
ence, actuated  by  the  most  generous  purpose,  brings  with  it 
some  limitation  of  a  people's  sovereignty,  — if  this  limitation 
is  felt  keenly  enough  by  the  people  interfered  with,  will  all 
the  advantages  that  accompany  it  be  strong  enough  to 
smother  the  desire  to  reconquer  their  former  complete  free- 
dom? Moreover,  the  self-esteem,  the  national  pride  of  a 
people  is  far  stronger  than  that  of  an  individual;  it  reasons 
less  and  often  fails  to  recognize  the  superiority  of  a  neigh- 
bor; consequently,  as  soon  as  a  people  whose  affairs  are 
under  the  direction  of  another  begins  to  comprehend  its  own 
powers  and  is  admitted  to  the  same  rank  of  civilization  as 

D28] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

that  of  the  nation  which  is  intervening  with  the  intention  of 
teaching,  it  will  oppose  this  design  with  all  that  feeling  of 
repulsion  to  which  the  self-respect  of  a  nation  is  susceptible 
when  it  is  troubled  by  the  mere  suggestion  that  it  needs  the 
guidance  of  another  and  is  incapable  of  working  out  its  own 

salvation. 

And  it  is  to  be  remarked  that  this  fact,  natural  in  the 
psychology  of  the  group  and  repeated  in  history,  has  been 
dignified  in  a  theory  which,  idealizing  it,  has  strengthened 
and  raised  it  from  the  rank  of  an  almost  instinctive  move- 
ment of  reaction  to  the  category  of  a  recognized  necessity, 
some  of  whose  principles  admit  of  no  discussion.  This  is  the 
position  of  Fichte  when  he  names  independence  as  a  fun- 
damental and  essential  condition  of  all  culture,  since  civiliza- 
tion truly  serviceable  to  a  people  must  be  the  outgrowth  of 
their  own  effort  and  not  something  borrowed  or  taken  over 
ready-made  from  others.^ 

Except  for  a  very  few  and  limited  examples  of  missions 
and  governors  in  the  history  of  our  own  civilization,  we 
lack,  I  repeat,  such  data  concerning  loving  guardianship 
over  a  people  as  we  possess  concerning  the  affectionate  teach- 
ing of  a  child;  but  this  deficiency  does  not  authorize  the 
statement  that,  generally  speaking,  the  humanitarian  pro- 
ceeding would  not  be  possible. 

That  of  which  we  may  be  certain  is,  that  humanity,  taken 
as  a  whole,  does  not  know  how  to  use  it.  It  has  seen  the 
wisdom  of  dealing  gently  with  the  child,  but  it  has  not  yet 
arrived  at  this  method  of  dealing  with  the  people  of  another 
country  when  that  country  is  open  to  domination.  This  his- 
torical law,  true  in  ancient  times,  true  in  the  Middle  x^ges, 

1  History,  however,  sometimes  argues  with  examples  contrary  to  this  state- 
ment-r.F.,  the  Romanization  of  a  great  part  of  Europe,  which  produced  ex- 
tremely beneficial  results,  notwithstanding  the  fart  that  it  was  accompamed 
by  donnination.  The  truth  is  that  Fichte  theorizes  concernmg  peoples  already 
civilized. 

1:329:] 


A    1 


( 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

true  in  the  epochs  of  great  discoveries  and  of  colonial  ex- 
pansion, still  reigns  in  the  world  to-day.  And  furthermore, 
notwithstanding  certain  advances  in  the  laws  of  war,  usually 
more  theoretical  than  practical,  illusory  promises  in  the 
reports  of  the  international  conventions  and  frequently  con- 
tradicted by  reality,  we  note  a  retrocession  in  the  ideas  rela- 
tive to  this  point,  or  a  new  and  unsympathetic  assertion 
(dissembled  in  form  and  not  very  explicit  in  its  outward 
manifestations,  but  very  clear  and  definite  as  a  rule  of  con- 
duct) concerning  the  incorrigibility  of  certain  human  groups, 
of  their  unfitness  for  civilization,  and  of  the  advantage  of 
making  them  disappear  as  one  would  an  obstacle  which 
stands  in  the  way  of  progress.  At  least  there  is  a  general 
indifference  to  the  fact  of  their  disappearance,  even  in  the 
case  when  this  is  brought  about  by  violence  and  has  exceeded 
the  limits  of  a  natural  movement  for  self-defense  on  the  part 
of  the  superior  group.  These  sentiments,  I  repeat,  are  the 
dominant  ones  which  in  the  end  direct  the  decisive  acts  of 
statesmen,  and  those  which  triumph  beneath  racial  roman- 
ticisms which,  in  some  places,  have  wished  to  bind  the  pres- 
ent life  with  native  atavisms  open  to  much  question  when 
considered  historically,  but  worthy  of  respect  from  the 
humanitarian  point  of  view. 

The  question,  then,  in  its  practical  aspect  is  answered  day 
by  day;  and  it  will  be  some  time  at  least  before  any  one  will 
be  able  to  change  Its  trend,  however  fervid  and  however 
reasonable  may  be  the  propaganda  against  it.  Precisely 
here  lies  the  problem— in  the  fitness  of  one  or  the  other  line 
of  conduct.  Which  of  them  has  reason  on  its  side?  Which 
should  prevail  in  the  system  of  relations  between  people  and 
people,  state  and  state?  Do  there  exist,  in  truth,  peoples 
incapable  of  advancing  civilization,  refractory  to  the  de- 
mands of  modern  life;  peoples  whose  mere  existence  in  or 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

out  of  a  country  is  at  least  a  dead  weight  upon  the  progress 
of  that  country,  if  not  actually  an  active  factor  of  disturb- 
ance and  degradation,  the  suppression  of  which  is  a  neces- 
sity ? 

It  must  be  observed  that  the  judgment  of  incorrigibility  or 

inadaptability  is  rendered  by  the  very  group  which  is  pro- 
moting  or  predicting  the  annihilation  of  that  which  it  con- 
siders  a  disturbing  element.    This  judgment,  always  open  to 
suspicion,  since  the  giver  is  at  one  and  the  same  time  judge 
and  party  to  the  suit,  is  perhaps  hasty  as  well,  when  we  con- 
sider that  it  Is  applied  to  those  who  have  as  yet  experienced 
no    attempted    education.      If   the    condemnatory    sentence 
should  come  as  the  consequence  of  a  systematic  series  of 
efforts   sufficiently   extensive   and  intensive  to   educate  the 
people  or  the  race  qualified  as  a  disturbing  factor,  there 
would  still  be  room  for  discussion  concerning  the  logical 
exactness  of  the  conclusion,  but  one  could  never  deny  the 
fact  that  this  conclusion  had  some  foundation,  and  that  be- 
fore arriving  at  it  other  methods  had  been  tried.    But,  as  we 
have  previously  asked,  which  one  of  those  peoples  who  have 
planted  colonies  among  inferior  races  can  lay  claim  to  hav- 
ing actually  made  an  attempt  at  such  an  education,  instead 
of  offering  a  ''civilization"  produced  through  alcohol,  decep- 
tion, abuses,  and  through  that  contempt  which  bars  from 
communion  with  the  superior  race  those  men  considered  as 
lower  in  the  scale  of  humanity? 

The  above  consideration,  just  as  It  stands,  would  be  suffi- 
cient to  make  us  suspend  judgment  respecting  the  justice  of 
that  policy  of  domination  in  the  relations  among  peoples; 
but  we  could  strengthen  It  still  further  by  observing  that^  in 
history  this  judgment  of  inferiority  has  not  only  been  applied 
to  barbarous  and  savage  human  groups,  but  also  to  those 
who  enjoyed  a  well-developed  civilization;  not  infrequent 

[330 


( 


(i 


i  I 


I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

are  the  cases  in  which  a  warlike  chauvinism,  the  smoldering 
hatred  of  nation  for  nation,  also  applies  this  judgment  to  a 
nation  which  is  almost  upon  the  same  plane  of  development 
as  the  one  which  condemns  it  and  passes  this  opinion  only 
because  the  latter  nation  does  not  consider  the  other  as  be- 
longing to  the  same  "race,"  or  because  a  gulf  of  century-long 
wars  separates  them  and  provokes  their  ill-will,  or  simply 
because  exciting  contempt  for  any  foreign  accomplishment 
was  considered  a  good  method  for  assuring  patriotism. 

Even  laying  aside  these  cases  of  actual  injustice,  of  judg- 
ment blinded  by  passion,  and  also  those  other  cases  in  which 
the  condemnatory  sentence  is  notoriously  hasty  and  is  not 
based  on  positive  facts,  there  will  still  remain  a  few  concern- 
ing which  the  question  reappears  in  all  its  vigor.  Around  it 
the  two  opposed  criteria  of  humanity  will  continue  to  con- 
tend—the sentimental  and  optimistic,  which  abhors  all 
violent  suppressions,  and  the  utilitarian  and  pessimistic, 
which  believes  that  such  suppression  is  justified  in  the  service 
of  civilization  and  on  the  grounds  of  the  positive  inability  to 
advance  in  culture  which  it  presupposes  in  certain  human 
groups.  That  is  to  say,  that  even  on  the  firm  ground  of 
sociology  and  law,  laying  aside  all  the  selfishness,  all  the 
deceits  and  tricks  of  justice  which  are  produced  by  special 
interests  ever  against  our  wills,  and  all  the  illogical  precipi- 
tancy of  judgment,  this  question  may  safely  be  formulated, 
or  rather,  in  fact,  we  do  formulate  it  to-day  and  answer  it  at 
each  step  without  scruples,  and  hence  we  must  consider  it  as 
not  to  be  set  aside  in  our  minds,— the  question  as  to  whether 
there  actually  exist  people  who,  because  they  are  refractory 
under  any  attempt  to  guide  and  educate  them,  should  be 
eliminated  from  modern  social  life,  if  not  by  a  quick,  violent 
method,  then  by  neglect  of  their  cultural  necessities  and  the 
absorption  of  their  revenues.    This  recognition  of  our  pres- 

D32] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 
ent  attitude  of  mind  toward  a  question  of  such  importance 
should  serve  us  as  a  touchstone  for  investigation  and  judg- 
ment of  past  conditions.     If  humanity  to-day,  with  all  its 
progress  and  culture,  is  still  doubtful  on  this  particular  pomt, 
and  what  is  worse,  in  actual  practice  still  continues  to  apply 
the  system  of  domination  and  fails  to  recognize  tutelary 
education,  or  else  does  not  apply  it  when  it  should,  how  can 
we  be  surprised  that  in  other  centuries  humanity  less  cul- 
tured, harsher,  and  more  implacable  toward  man,  less  influ- 
enced by  the  principles  of  fraternity  and  solidarity,  should 
usually  have  proceeded  in  the  same  manner  and  fulfilled  its 
duty  of  transmitting  civilization  either  by  subordinating  it  to 
its  own  interests,  or  imposing  it  by  force,  or  judging  that  not 
the  conquered  people  were  worthy  of  it,  but  rather  the  con- 
queror In  the  dissemination  of  colonies  which  conquest  itself 
brings  about?     Undoubtedly  the  fundamental  work  for  a 
knowledge  of  actual  human  history  is  a  thorough  investiga- 
tion as  to  how  each  people,  on  coming  into  contact  with  an 
inferior  race,  has  understood  its  relations  with  that  race  in 
the  light  of  its  duty  toward  civilization,  and  how  it  has  ef- 
fectually realized  them  (favoring  now  one  system,  now  the 
other) .    This  investigation  up  to  the  present  time  has  been 
undertaken  only  in  a  fragmentary  manner   (that  is,  with 
reference  only  to  certain  peoples,  and,  strangely,  to  certain 
definite  classes  of  culture  and  of  social  life),  and  often  in  a 
spirit  of  partiality  which  sought  only  faults,  not  facts.    The 
Kulturgeschichte,  aspiration  of  the  theorists  of  the  Renais- 
sance, cultivated  in  the  learned  manner  by  many  historians 
of  the  eighteenth  century  and  reduced  to  a  system  by  those 
of  the  nineteenth,  is  still  in  the  main  a  collection  of  general 
laws  whose  ideal  interrogatory  lacks  many  of  the  questions 
which  might  explain  its  processes  and  give  significance  to  the 
material  on  which  it  is  based.    One  of  these  questions-and 

D33;] 


V     1 


/ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

one  of  the  most  important— is  that  which  we  formulated  a 
moment  ago.  While  this  question  remains  unanswered  with 
that  fullness  which  its  conception  demands  and  with  the  sci- 
entific accuracy  which  would  exclude  passion  and  injustice, 
we  have  no  right,  even  from  the  most  rigorously  sentimental 
and  humanistic  point  of  view,  to  judge  any  people  upon  this 
phase  of  their  conduct,  because  we  would  lack  the  exact  and 
complete  knowledge  of  what  they  had  accomplished,  and, 
consequently,  the  ability  justly  to  compare  this  with  what  the 
rest  of  mankind  had  achieved. 

This  is  the  case  of  Spain  considered  as  a  colonizing  coun- 
try. Since  Las  Casas  published  his  "Destruccion  de  las  In- 
dias"  (1552),  Spaniards  and  foreigners^  have  discussed  not 
only  the  problems  proposed  by  Las  Casas  — as,  for  instance, 
the  right  of  conquest  in  America  (the  justice  or  injustice  of 
the  war),  the  personal  liberty  of  the  aborigines,  and  espe- 
cially those  acts  of  violence,  unauthorized  even  by  war  itself 
and  which  more  than  anything  else  aroused  the  pity  and  the 
just  spirit  of  the  famous  friar,— but  also  our  entire  colonial 
policy  and  even  our  ability  as  a  colonizing  people,  in  so  far 
as  colonization  is  to  be  regarded  as  an  aid  to  the  progress  of 
the  colonizers,  which  is  the  consideration  that  preoccupies 
those  who  regard  the  problem  from  this  point  of  view.  Let 
us  put  this  question  aside  since  it  has  no  immediate  relation 
to  the  problem  of  civilization  which  is  now  occupying  our 
attention.    Although  this  is  interesting  to  economists  and  to 

^  The  defense  of  Spain's  colonial  policy  in  America  has  been  very  incom- 
plete. Neither  Vargas  Machuca  nor  Solorzano  nor  Nuix,  etc.,  has  dealt  for 
the  most  part  with  more  than  one  aspect — i.e.,  the  slaughter  of  the  Indians, 
their  slavery  through  the  abuse  of  agents,  and  other  matters  connected  with 
the  accusations  of  Las  Casas;  and  even  this  they  have  usually  done  with  ar- 
guments which,  judged  by  our  modern  standards,  at  times  rather  make  things 
worse,  although  such  arguments  carried  great  weight  at  the  time  they  were 
advanced,  because  they  were  in  accordance  with  the  legal  opinion  of  the  age, 
a  circumstance  which  we  must  never  fail  to  take  into  account.  As  an  example 
of  this  type  of  argument  we  may  take  that  of  evangelization  and  that  of  the 
power  of  the  Pope,  which  Vargas  Machuca  employs,  etc. 

[334;] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

those  who  with  scientific  reasoning  deduce  from  every  mani- 
festation of  a  people's  character  the  salient  points  of  their 
psychology  and  their  fitness  for  social  life,  it  lacks  interest 
for  those  who,  like  us,  are  putting  a  very  different  question 
-one  referring  not  to  the  effect  of  colonization  upon  the 
colonizing  country,  but  on  the  country  colonized. 

In  this  respect  it  is  not  particularly  interesting  to  note 
those  cases  in  which  the  Spaniards  of  the  sixteenth  and  seven- 
teenth centuries,  as  sons  of  their  epoch  and  educators  m  its 
ideas,  acted  as  did  the  world  at  that  time   (and  as  is  done 
even  to-day  quite  frequently)  toward  the  persons  and  pos- 
sessions of  the  natives,  their  political  independence  and  pe- 
culiar civilization,  more  or  less  advanced.     That  which  is 
both  interesting  and  necessary  is  to  note  and  weigh,  after  a 
detailed  and  calm  investigation,  the  true  extent  of  this  pro- 
ceeding, or,  in  other  words,  of  this  contempt  for  the  Indians 
and  the  abuse  of  their  lives  and  possessions,  in  order  that  we 
may  be  able  to  say  whether  the  cases  in  which  this  occurred 
were  such,  in  number  and  consequence,  as  to  warrant  our 
considering  the   Spanish   conquest   and   colonization   as   a 
unique  and  extraordinary  example  of  a  cruelty  and  arbitrari- 
ness unequaled  in  history,  or,  on  the  contrary,  an  exam- 
ple of  the  manner  in  which  human  groups  which  consider 
themselves  more  advanced  have  always  treated  those  infe- 
rior to  them.    And  while  we  are  considering  those  charges 
unfavorable  to  Spain,  it  is  equally  interesting  and  necessary 
to  ascertain  and  scrupulously  to  judge  those  actions,  laws, 
sentiments  and  ideas  which  counteracted  to  a  certain  degree, 
or  attempted  to  counteract,  the  usual  method  of  formulating 
and  carrying  into  effect  a  system  of  treatment  for  peoples  of 
different  rank  in  the  scale  of  culture  and  civilization,  peoples 
of  different  religion,  etc.,  etc.     The  accurate  and  complete 
verification  and  comparison  of  these  two  opposed  points  of 

D35l 


[ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

view  will  enable  us  to  form  a  just  and  impartial  judgment 
upon  Spain's  early  proceedings  with  regard  to  the  countries 
which  she  conquered  or  colonized.  This  verification  of  data, 
however,  has  not  yet  been  carried  out,  although  it  has  been 
suggested  and  even  initiated  in  certain  historical  and  polemic 
works,  modern  and  ancient.^ 

The  same  reaction  which  is  visible  to-day  in  the  works  of 
so  many  authors,  not  Spaniards,  against  that  exaggeration, 
admitted  and  encouraged  for  centuries,  concerning  Spanish 
cruelty  as  an  essential  part  of  our  methods  of  colonization, 
proves  that  the  matter  is  not  yet  fully  understood  nor  the 
final  judgment  upon  it  rendered.  The  thousands  of  com- 
ments dealing  with  American  history  which  have  not  been 
read  and,  consequently,  not  been  used  in  historical  investiga- 
tions are  sufficient  argument  in  favor  of  a  just  and  prudent 
hesitation  in  pronouncing  this  judgment. 

There  is  to  be  considered,  however,  a  second  division  of 
this  purely  historical  problem  which  is  occupying  our  atten- 
tion at  present.  This  division  deals  with  the  actual  benefits 
conferred  by  Spain  upon  the  countries  she  colonized.  Mis- 
taken or  not,  from  the  point  of  view  of  politics,  the  com- 
parison of  the  Indies  (Spanish  possessions  in  the  New 
World)  to  Spanish  territory,  the  consideration  of  their  in- 
habitants as  Spanish  subjects,  which  influenced  the  laws 
given  to  them  in  the  same  manner  as  it  influenced  those  given 
the  people  of  the  Spanish  peninsula,  the  frequent  transplan- 
tation of  Spanish  institutions  to  America,  the  participation  in 
public  duties  allowed  these  very  natives,  etc.,  etc.,  are  facts 
which  merit  consideration  as  evidence  that  Spain  gave  to  the 
new  countries  she  had  conquered  the  same  political  and 
administrative  system  by  which  she  herself  was  governed, 

1  A  resume  of  all  that  is  known  on  this  subject  to-day  may  be  found  in  the 
author's  "Historia  de  Espana  y  de  la  Civilizacion  espanola,"  Vol.  II,  sees.  574, 
575.  588;  Vol.  Ill,  sees.  676,  677,  678,  695,  696,  697,  698;  Vol.  IV,  see.  811. 

1336-2 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

and  not  a  distinct  and  inferior  system.'     She  also  followed 
this  identical  policy  with  regard  to  her  culture,  establishing 
in  her  colonies  the  same  system  of  education  which  the 
mother  country  possessed  and  which  experienced  the  same 
fortune  and  vicissitudes  as  did  the  latter.     In  this  respect 
there  never  existed  a  system  of  exceptions  (we  refer  to  the 
classical  period  of  colonization),  but  rather  one  of  perfect 
equality.     For  the  native  races  and  the  half-breeds  Spain 
even  went  to  the  extent  of  founding  special  centers  of  educa- 
tion and  means  of  obtaining  it  (as,  for  example,  in  Cuba, 
Mexico  and  Chile) .    If  she  did  no  more,  and  if  she  did  not 
always  succeed  in  that  which  she  attempted,  this  failure  was 
due  either  to  the  fact  that  the  problem  of  popular  education, 
as  far  as  the  native  was  concerned,  did  not  at  that  time  pre- 
sent itself  with  the  same  clearness  and  urgency  as  it  does 
to-day,  since  culture  was  then  the  patrimony  of  a  select  class,^ 
or  because  in  the  mother  country  herself  they  either  knew  no 
better  how  to  deal  with  the  subject,  or  if  they  had  at  one 
time  known,  the  decadence  of  education  had  greatly  reduced 
this  knowledge.    Failure  was  never  due,  however,  to  lack  of 
interest  in  offering  to  the  colonies  all  that  Spain  herself  pos- 
sessed of  culture  and  of  education.^ 

When  the  Spanish  governor  failed  to  observe  the  general 
rules  of  the  original  policy  in  reference  to  government  and 
instruction  in  the  colonies,  curtailing  the  rights  of  the  Creoles 
to  hold  public  offices  and  reducing  their  opportunities  of 
seeking  prosperity  through  the  liberal  professions^  because 

1  For  references  on  this  subject,  see  the  references  quoted  in  the  preceding 

^""'concerning  the   aristocratic  and  narrow  field  of  education.one  may  con 
sul.^he  author's  "Historia  de  Espaiia  y  de  la  Civilizac.on  espanola,    Vol.  III. 

"3  •■Hhtoria  de  Espaiia  y  de  la  Civilizacion  espanola,"   Vol.   Ill,   sec.   774: 

Vol.  IV. 

1:3373 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

he  distrusted  the  use  to  which  they  might  turn  those  advan- 
tages, the  situation  changed  and  the  conflict  with  these 
descendants  of  the  Spaniards  themselves,  not  with  the  native 
Americans,  declared  itself.  This  conflict,  for  the  causes  in- 
dicated above  and  for  many  others  extremely  complex,  was 
at  its  bitterest  during  the  nineteenth  century  with  respect  to 
those  colonies  which  remained  in  the  possession  of  Spain 
until  the  close  of  that  century.  This  change,  which  was  so 
late  in  appearing,  has,  nevertheless,  not  been  thoroughly 
studied  either  in  its  scope  or  causes,  and  consequently  it  is 
impossible  ever  to  estimate,  with  any  degree  of  exactness,  its 
historical  importance  and  bearing  upon  the  problem  of  this 
paper. 

Finally,  the  study  of  Spain  as  a  colonizing  power  would  be 
incomplete,  from  the  point  of  view  from  which  we  are  now 
considering  our  question,  without  a  realization  of  the  dis- 
coveries and  contributions  drawn  from  the  opportunities 
afforded  by  her  colonies  and  added  by  Spain  to  the  general 
fund  of  the  world's  culture.  The  services  rendered  in  this 
respect  by  her  geographers,  cosmographers,  naturalists, 
philologists,  navigators,  etc.,  make  a  considerable  item  which 
justice  demands  that  we  place  to  the  credit  of  Spain  in  the 
general  work  of  civilization— that  is,  in  the  list  of  contribu- 
tions which  each  people  owes  this  work  in  proportion  to  the 
resources  with  which  its  history  show^s  it  to  have  been  en- 
dowed. The  just  consideration  of  this  point  must  wait,  as 
does  all  that  precedes  it,  until  historical  investigation  has 
ascertained  the  number,  quality,  and  significance  of  the  facts 
relating  to  it. 

Let  us  now  return  to  the  general  question  from  which  this 
digression,  or  rather  this  practical  application,  has  led  us 
and  which  most  concerns  us  since  it  relates  to  the  fundamen- 
tal structure  and  scientific  purpose  of  these  lessons;  in  other 

[338;] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

words,  let  us  return  to  our  study  of  the  ways  in  which  civili- 
zation is  communicated  or  initiated  or  encouraged  among 
peoples  which  either  fail  to  possess  it  at  all  or  possess  it  m  a 
tentative  and  elementary  state.     Without  discussing  agam 
all  the  points  which  we  have  examined,  let  us  accept  the  law, 
just  as  history  past  and  present  shows  it,  that  the  peoples 
superior  in  culture,  wealth  and  power,  and  animated  by  the 
desire  to  extend  their  influence  over  the  world,  always  mter- 
vene  in  the  affairs  of  other  nations  which  they  consider  m- 
ferior.    This  interference,  however,  is  undertaken  under  the 
pretext  or  with  the  sincere  intention  of  aiding  a  more  back- 
ward people  toward  progress  through  the  infusion  and 
transplantation  of  all  the  means  of  culture  and  of  comfort, 
of  the  methods  and  standards  of  conduct  which  had  aided 
the  intervening  nation  in  becoming  a  principal  factor  m  all 
the  history  of  the  world  during  the  epoch  of  its  greatest 
power      And  let  us  imagine  the  most   favorable  case- 
namely,  that  in  which  compulsion  is  limited  to  the  indispen- 
sable (a  case  in  which  force  is  used  simply  to  bring  the  nation 
under  tutelage  to  submit  patiently  to  the  educative  action  in 
all  its  branches),  and  where  this  compulsion  is  actuated 
solely  by  purposes  of  kindness,  cooperation  and  aid.    Even 
then  a  new  problem  of  unquestionable  importance  would 
arise  because  it  concerns  the  future  civilization  of  the  world. 
This  problem  is  that  of  the  relation  which  the  distinctive 
characteristics  of  the  educating  and  educated  nations  should 
bear  to  each  other,  not  so  much  In  the  field  of  politics  as  in 
the  more  fundamental  and  important  field  of  the  culture  and 
philosophy  which  each  nation  represents. 

The  problem  is  neither  useless  nor  purely  hypothetical. 
On  the  contrary,  it  deals  with  a  very  common  reality  which 
repeats  in  ethical  relations  that  which  constantly  appears  in 
the  relations  of  Individuals,  especially  where  these  relations 

1:339:] 


\ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

enter  the  field  of  education.  In  all  grades  of  instruction  there 
are  educators  who  understand  their  function  as  simply  one  of 
causing  absorption.  This  interpretation  of  their  duty  is  some- 
times due  to  a  sincere  pedagogical  opinion,  sometimes  to  a 
vanity  which  considers  its  own  culture  ultimate  perfection 
and  for  that  reason  worth  imposing  upon  others  and  repeat- 
ing without  the  slightest  variation  or  amendment.  Such  in- 
structors consider  that  they  have  faithfully  performed  their 
task  if  they  have  reduced  to  the  same  pattern  the  minds  and 
characters  of  their  pupils,  giving  them  a  single  model  and 
smothering  in  them  all  manifestations  of  originality  and 
individuality  in  order  that  no  one  shall  either  mar  or  improve 
the  picture.  In  this  same  way  there  exist  "absorbing"  peo- 
ples who  understand  their  duty  toward  civilization  not  in  the 
sense  of  an  obligation  to  arouse  and  stimulate  the  free  spirit 
of  others,  so  that  through  original  and  unhampered  impulse 
they  may  attain,  in  their  own  way,  the  highest  ends  of  human 
endeavor,  but  in  the  sense  of  imposing  upon  others  their  par- 
ticular conception  of  life  and  manner  of  complying  with  its 
demands;  thus  replacing  with  their  own  spirit  that  of  the 
nation  they  desire  to  advance — that  is,  practically  crushing 
this  nation  out  of  existence  by  destroying  its  national  spirit 
and  replacing  it  with  that  of  the  educator.  Historical  ac- 
curacy compels  us  to  admit  that  not  merely  some  but  the 
majority  of  colonizing  and  civilizing  nations  proceed  in 
exactly  this  manner.  We  must  also  admit  that  those  who 
have  entered  foreign  territory  with  the  frank  desire  for  con- 
quest have  been  more  justified  in  so  proceeding.  This  im- 
pulse of  absorption,  this  lack  of  consideration  for  the 
mentality  and  character  of  other  human  groups,  sometimes 
results  from  the  instinctive  and  irrepressible  force  of  the 
civilizing  spirit,  which,  endowed  with  overabundance  of 
strength,  wherever  it  appears  destroys  everything  less  power- 

D4on 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

ful  even  without  the  deliberate  purpose  of  so  doing ;  at  other 
tim'es  it  emanates  from  the  excessive  and  inflated  estimation 
which  a  nation  holds  concerning  its  own  accomplishment, 
and  from  the  corresponding  contempt  which  it  entertains  for 
the  accomplishment  of  others,  in  which,  indeed,  it  perceives 
only  those  things  which  call  for  reform  or  abolition.    In  any 
case,  however,  the  spirit  of  absorption  springs  from  a  lack 
of   sociological   and   educative   orientation   caused  by   ig- 
norance, or  at  least  by  the  lack  of  a  realization,  so  complete 
that  it  is  formulated  and  applied  in  a  line  of  conduct,  that 
education  produces  nothing  of  worth  while  it  is  limited  to 
transferring  from  one  mind  to  another  formulae  and  bits  of 
second-hand  knowledge,  as  one  pours  water  from  one  vessel 
into  another,  but  is  only  productive  of  results  when  the 
pupil's  own  intelligence  is  stimulated  by  examples,  by  sugges- 
tions  and  bv  the  assistance  of  his  own  judgment,  which  has 
been 'encouraged  to  attain  a  higher  degree  of  ability  to  com- 
prehend  life  and  the  manners  of  satisfying  humanity's  needs, 
both  material  and  spiritual. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  this  neglect  or  faulty  compre- 
hension of  the  educational  duties  of  one  people  toward  an- 
other has  been  increasing  and  growing  more  prevalent  as 
civilization  has  advanced.    The  enormous  difference  between 
the  civilization  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans  and  the  primitive, 
barbarous  state  of  the  other  European  nations  which  they 
colonized  and  ruled  explains,  on  the  one  hand,  the  contempt 
of  the  former  for  their  colonies,  and,  on  the  other,  the  ad- 
miration which  the  inferior  nations  felt  for  the  superior,  and 
their  eagerness  to  assimilate  the  higher  culture  of  the  latter. 
But  we  must  also  notice  that  the  Greeks  and  Romans  (we 
restrict  ourselves  to  the  history  of  European  civilization) 
deliberately  refrained  from  attempting  to  surpass  or  restrain 
any  characteristic  manifestation  on  the  part  of  the  nations 

n34i:] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

which  they  colonized  and  dominated,  except,  of  course,  as 
these  manifestations  might  relate  to  politics  and  government, 
because  this  would  have  concerned  their  sovereignty.  For 
the  rest  (religion,  mode  of  living,  private  and  even,  in  part, 
public  law— all  those  things  in  which  the  distinctive  charac- 
teristics of  a  people  are  most  clearly  shown)  they  had  the 
greatest  respect,  or,  one  might  say,  since  "respect"  does  not 
exactly  convey  my  meaning,  the  greatest  indifference.  By 
virtue  of  this  indifference  each  people  was  enabled  to  pre- 
serve and  perpetuate  these  important  institutions  in  their 
original  form  and  purpose.  Rome  had  to  attain  the  height 
of  her  power  in  order  that  Romanization  as  an  absorbing 
force  (certainly  not  repugnant  to  those  subjected  to  it) 
might  extend  to  matters  originally  left  untouched,  but  in 
which,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  dominated  peoples  possessed 
little  that  was  definitely  opposed  to  the  innovation  of  the 
conquerors.  Only  religion  was  exempt  from  this  uniformity 
(and  perhaps  also  a  part  of  customary  law),  although  this 
freedom  was  without  great  advantage  to  those  nations  whose 
religion  was  really  less  advanced  than  the  Roman  paganism, 
and,  more  particularly,  than  the  philosophy  which  was 
gradually  replacing  this  paganism. 

Christianity  changed  the  aspect  of  affairs  by  transferring 
the  process  of  absorption  to  the  religious  side  of  the  ques- 
tion. The  Germanic  peoples,  Romanized  more  or  less  thor- 
oughly and  rapidly  and  upholding  in  the  field  of  law  the 
principle  that  each  nation  should  possess  a  code  suited  to  its 
own  peculiar  conditions  and  demands,  represent  only  as 
regards  religion  the  uncompromising  uniformist  attitude  of 
mind  which,  notwithstanding  the  indifference  of  the  Mussul- 
mans in  the  majority  of  cases  and  the  spirit  of  practical 
compromise  which  some  Christian  nations  maintained  to- 
ward them  and  toward  the  Jews  for  many  centuries,  was 

[3423 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

imposed  from  the  twelfth  century,  and  which  grew  con- 
stantly more  bitter  and  severe  until  the  early  part  of  the 
present  age.     In  other  things,  however,  the  conquerors  and 
the  colonizers  returned  to  the  practice  of  the  Greeks  and 
Romans,  and  did  not  insist  upon  the  suppression  of  the  cus- 
toms and  manners  peculiar  to  the  inferior  peoples  as  long  as 
these  did  not  infringe  upon  the  question  of  religion  and,  as 
goes  without  saying,  upon  the  matter  of  their  own  sover- 
eignty.   Either  they  left  their  subjects  in  freedom  upon  all 
other  subjects   (without  this  neglect  in  any  way  preventmg 
the  realization  in  history  of  that  spontaneous  assimilation  of 
superior  culture  which  penetrated  everywhere,  and  which, 
through  imitation,  communicated  to  the  inferior  race  that 
part  of  itself  which  they  were  capable  of  adopting),  or  they 
made  them  their  legal  equals,  placing  within  their  reach,  as 
they  did  in  Spain,  all  the  means  of  culture  and  progress 
which  the  mother  country  possessed.    It  must  be  observed, 
too    that  all  this  was  worked  out  with  peoples  in  a  very 
primitive  state  of  civilization  both  socially  and  intellectually, 
or  even  in  a  state  of  manifest  barbarity. 

But  to-day  the  doctrine  has  taken  a  new  turn,  and  it  is 
applied  in  dealing  with  all  classes  of  peoples.    The  endeavor 
of  those  who  uphold  it  would  be  to  eradicate  from  within  the 
limits  of  their  political  dominion  every  type  of  civilization 
and  manner  of  living  which  differs  from  their  own,  andto 
replace  them  with  a  new  expression  of  their  own  doctrine 
of  intransigency,  which,  if  it  spares  religion,  affects  other 
phases  of  life  as  essential  and  characteristic,  and  which  is, 
after  all,  no  more  than  an  expression  either  of  colossal 
vanity  or  of  inconceivable  short-sightedness  with  regard  to 
the  way  humanity  has  progressed  and  can  still  continue  to 
progress.     The  effective  mode  of  progress  which,  in  obe- 
dience to  a  psychological  law  stronger  than  human  will,  the 

1:343:] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

peoples  of  all  ages  have  followed,  working  together  for  the 
perfection  of  civilization  as  a  whole,  in  spite  of  humanity's 
tendency  toward  jealous  anger  and  the  formation  of  distinct 
and  self-sufficient  groups,  is  not  one  in  which  a  single  phi- 
losophy of  life  and  manner  of  giving  expression  to  mental 
and  spiritual  qualities  forces  into  one  mold,  with  deplorable 
monotony  and  unjustifiable  tyranny,  the  various  activities  of 
peoples;  rather  is  it  one  In  which  each  people  develops  its 
own  culture  to  the  highest  point,  extracting  from  each  men- 
tal trait  and  quality  all  that  it  offers  of  essential  and  valuable 
In  order  thus  to  enrich  the  complex  whole  of  life  with  cus- 
toms varied  and  distinctive  (in  so  much  as  they  are  unique 
and  represent  the  peculiar  aptitudes  of  each  people).  To 
proceed  in  any  other  way— that  Is,  against  this  principle  of 
consideration  of  complete  and  unhampered  cultivation  of  the 
individuality  of  each  people— is  to  impoverish  civilization. 
There  exist,  without  doubt,  examples  of  the  above-mentioned 
mode  of  progress,  notably  In  industrial  applications  of  the 
great  scientific  principles— that  is  to  say,  applications  of  our 
knowledge  of  natural  forces  and  their  laws  which,  through 
their  very  generality,  are  applicable  to  all  and  which  all  are 
equally  free  to  use.  This  also  Is  the  case  with  universal, 
humanity-wide  principles  of  education  and  moral  conduct. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  there  are  many  quahtles  of  the  spirit, 
or  appertaining  to  it,  which  fail  to  develop  in  all  peoples  or 
In  all  individuals.  Each  one  has  been  or  is  master  or  master 
artisan  In  one  or  various  lines  of  progress,  and  his  accom- 
plishment Is  offered,  in  the  course  of  centuries,  as  a  model 
and  spur  to  others  who  would  not  know  how  to  surpass  It, 
and  who  need,  from  time  to  time,  to  stimulate  their  energies 
by  contact  with  an  achievement  which  through  Its  very  nature 
has  attained  the  highest  degree  of  perfection  of  which 
humanity  Is  capable.    Each  particular  ''civilization''  of  those 

1:3443 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Wch  arrive  at  productive  maturity  has  contributed  its  char- 

"      is  ic  Item      This  contribution  is  the  outcome  of  the 

taTernc    oTthe  most  fundamental,  most  distinctive  quah- 

f  the  people  or  the  peoples  which  produced  it,  and  it 

'nral^ys  endure  as  a  model  for  the  later  civilizations, 

:  I    T„     .need  by  .heir  own  id.osyn.rasies,  ma,  .dvance 

•      ^-ff.r^nf-  lines      In  this  manner  civilization  has 

„a.„«s  fac,„.  ;^;t;r:::.''p  :j^"  « ':Ltl' ic 

T»«itudes  which  are  died  forth  by  human  needs,  from 
11  .  elnrary  to  .h.  high.sr,  have  no.  been  and  never 
will  be  »ni..d  in  on.  spiri..  national  or  ,nd,v,d„al,  b„.  d„. 

tributed  among  many.  ., 

This  being  the  case,  what  would  c.v.uzat.on  gam  if  even 
nf  these  contributing  factors  were  destroyed?     And 
one  of  these  contrio       g  destroyed  m 

•^"*  Z:  ,rltiraom'n-.H:  world,  subiecin,  i. 
r:  litrX  WW*  Lnld  carry  wi.h  it  ""'o;;-    -"^ 

a  very  sman  p  u„rnane     What  will  he  do, 

of  him  if  he  is  to  be  worthy  and  humane,    vv  n 

then  without  the  collaboration  of  those  who  can  supply  the 

song  of  a  happy  man?    Our  '■""f 'S"'!""  '  "  "tsk  of 
(achat  we  do  no.  lack  any  ~'''''7''''"    "  ^J"  Bn 
bringing  .og.th.r  .he  riches,  var.e.y  »    =  -'      ™;',^_  l^ 

:,::T£:rwrm:::rea;hrn,ea^h  people, 

113451 


I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

understand  Its  unavoidable  duty  and  grave  responsibility 
toward  the  cultivation  and  perfection  of  its  own  distinctive 
note  in  the  great  harmony  of  civilization.  In  other  words, 
each  people  must  learn  not  to  flee  from  the  task  set  before  it, 
nor  to  fail  in  that  assistance  which  other  people  expect  from 
it.  It  is  also  necessary  to  establish  a  continuous  and  sys- 
tematic spiritual  communion  among  nations  in  order  that 
they  may  understand  and  mutually  aid  each  other,  that  each 
one  may  learn  from  the  rest  the  lessons  they  are  best  fitted 
to  teach,  and  that  in  this  way  the  work  of  national  civiliza- 
tion may  be  converted  into  a  truly  human  work  in  which  all 
groups  and  all  individuals  may  cooperate,  each  contributing 
the  best  and  most  valuable  part  of  its  culture,  and  each  bear- 
ing always  in  mind  the  way  in  which  his  contribution  will 
most  benefit  others. 

Only  in  this  manner  should  civilization  spread,  perfecting 
and  enriching  itself,  — civilization,  with  the  present  and  fu- 
ture of  which  we  are  rightly  concerned,  and  the  laws  of 
which  historians  and  sociologists  do  not  investigate  from 
mere  curiosity  alone,  but  rather  in  order  that  their  know- 
ledge of  these  laws  may  enlighten  and  guide  mankind  in  all 
its  present  and  its  future  actions. 

Rafael  Altamira. 


n3463 


\ 


MOLECULAR  THEORIES  AND 
MATHEMATICS 

AGGREGATES  OF  ZERO  MEASURE 

MONOGENIC  UNIFORM  NON-ANALYTIC 

FUNCTIONS— THE  THEORIES  OF 

CAUCHY,  WEIERSTRASS, 

AND  RIEMANN^ 


First  Lecture 
MOLECULAR  THEORIES  AND  MATHEMATICS  2 

HOW  could  I  fail  to  call  up  the  memory  of  the  illus- 
trious scientist  for  whose  death,  so  cruelly  premature, 
France  and  the  whole  world  are  mourning?    When  Henri 
Poincare  was  invited  by  President  Edgar  Odell  Lovett  to 
deliver  an  address  at  this  scientific  celebration,  his  acceptance 
was  conditional  on  the  state  of  his  health.    A  few  months 
later,  he  finally  declined  the  invitation,  promising,  however, 
to  send  his  lecture  in  writing.     I  cannot  remember  without 
emotion  the  last  conversation  I  had  with  him  on  that  subject. 
I  was  still  hoping  that  his  decision  was  not  final ;  but,  after 
giving  me  some  friendly  advice  about  my  lectures  and  the 
journey,  he  told  me  with  what  deep  regret  he  had  to  give  up 
the  thought  of  ever  visiting  the  United  States  again,  and  I 
felt,  for  the  first  time,  how  serious  was  the  condition  which 
justified  his  refusal.     A  few  weeks  afterward  he  was  gone. 
In  spite  of  the  difficulties  of  such  a  task,  I  should  have  con- 
sidered it  a  pious  duty  to  devote  this  address  to  an  appre- 
elation  of  his  work;  no  subject  could  be  more  suitable,  in 
this  Institute  consecrated  to  science,  than  the  life  and  works 
of  this  noble  champion  of  disinterested  research;  but  my 
eminent  friend  Mr.  Vito  Volterra  had,  as  you  know,  formed 

1  Three  lectures  presented  at  the  inauguration  of  the  Rice  Institute  by 
Fn,ile  Bore  Professor  of  the  Theory  of  Functions  in  the  University  of  Pans. 
^■^Translat'ed  ?rom  the  French  by  Professor  Albert  Leon  Guerard  of  the 
Rice  Institute.  _  ^ 

[1347  3 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

the  same  plan;  and  no  one  among  you  will  regret  that  I 
resigned  to  him  the  privilege  of  carrying  it  out. 


The  relations  between  the  mathematical  sciences  and  the 
physical  sciences  are  as  old  as  these  sciences  themselves;  it 
is  the  study  of  natural  phenomena  which  led  man  to  set  for 
himself  the  first  problems,  out  of  which,  by  means  of  abstrac- 
tion and  generalization,  the  sciences  of  numbers  and  of  space 
have  grown  in  all  their  splendid  complexity.  Conversely, 
through  a  sort  of  preestablished  harmony,  certain  mathe- 
matical theories,  after  being  developed  apparently  far  from 
the  real,  were  often  found  to  provide  the  key  to  phenomena 
which  the  creators  of  these  theories  did  not  have  in  mind. 
The  most  famous  instance  in  point  is  the  theory  of  conic 
sections,  an  object  of  pure  speculation  among  the  Greek 
geometers,  but  whose  researches  enabled  Kepler,  twenty 
centuries  later,  to  formulate  with  precision  the  laws  of  the 
motions  of  the  planets.  In  the  same  way,  in  the  first  half 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  it  was  the  theory  of  imaginary 
exponentials  which  made  it  possible  to  go  deeper  into  the 
study  of  vibratory  motions,  which  was  found  to  be  of  such 
commanding  importance  in  physics  and  even  in  the  field  of 
industry;  it  is  to  this  study  that  we  owe  wireless  telegraphy 
and  the  transmission  of  energy  by  polyphase  currents.  More 
recently  still,  we  know  how  useful  the  abstract  theory  of 
groups  proved  to  be  for  the  study  of  the  ideas,  so  profound 
and  so  new,  which  have  been  put  forward  to  explain  the 
results  of  the  capital  experiments  on  relativity  made  by  your 
illustrious  compatriot  Michelson. 

But  these  illustrations,  however  important  they  may  be, 
are  special  and  relate  to  particular  theories.     How  much 

[3483 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 
more  striking  is  the  universal  adoption  of  the  forms  imposed 
on  scientific  thought  by  the  genius  of  Descartes,  Newton, 
Leibnitz!     The  use  of  rectangular  coordinates  and  of  the 
elements  of  differential  and  integral  calculus  has  become  so 
familiar  to  us  that  we  might  be  tempted  at  times  to  forget 
that  these  admirable  instruments  date  only  from  the  seven- 
teenth century,  and  in  the  same  way  the  theory  of  partial 
differential  equations  dates  only  from  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury: it  was  in  1767  that  d'Alembert  obtained  the  general 
integral  of  the  equation  of  vibrating  chords.     It  was  the 
study  of  physical  phenomena  which  suggested  the  notions  of 
continuity,  derivative,  integral,  differential  equation,  vector, 
and  the  calculus  of  vectors,  and  these  notions,  by  a  just 
return,  have  become  part  of  the  scientific  equipment  neces- 
sary to  every  physicist :  it  is  through  them  that  he  interprets 
the  results  of  his  experiments.    There  is  evidently  nothmg 
mysterious  in  the  fact  that  mathematical  theories  constructed 
on  the  model  of  certain  phenomena  should  have  been  capable 
of  being  developed  and  of  providing  a  model  for  other  phe- 
nomena ;  this  fact,  however,  deserves  to  hold  our  attention, 
for  it  implies  an  important  practical  consequence;  if  new 
physical    phenomena    suggest    new   mathematical    models, 
mathematicians  will  have  to  study  these  new  models  and 
their  generalizations,  with  the  legitimate  hope  that  the  new 
mathematical  theories  thus  evolved  .vlll  prove  fruitful  in 
their  turn  in  providing  the  physicists  with  useful  forms  of 
thought.    In  other  words,  to  the  evolution  of  physics  there 
should  correspond  an  evolution  of  mathematics  which,  with- 
out giving  up  the  study  of  classical  and  well  established 
theories,  should  develop  in  taking  into  account  the  results  of 
experience.     It  is  in  this  order  of  ideas  that  I  should  like 
to  examine  to-day  the  influence  which  molecular  theories  may 
have  on  the  development  of  mathematics. 

r349:] 


rt 


fi 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


II 

It  was  in  the  hypothesis  of  the  continuity  of  matter  that, 
at  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century  and  in  the  first  half  of 
the  nineteenth,  what  may  be  termed  classical  mathematical 
physics  was  created;  one  may  take  as  types  of  the  theories 
thus  constructed  hydrodynamics  and  elasticity.  In  hydro- 
dynamics every  liquid  was  considered  by  definition  as  homo- 
geneous and  isotropic;  it  was  not  quite  the  same  in  the  study 
of  the  elasticity  of  solid  bodies:  the  theory  of  crystalline 
forms  had  led  physicists  to  admit  the  existence  of  a  periodic 
network— that  is  to  say,  of  a  discontinuous  structure;  but  the 
period  of  the  network  was  supposed  to  be  extremely  small 
compared  with  the  elements  of  matter  physically  considered 
as  differential  elements;  the  crystalline  structure  therefore 
led  only  to  anisotropy,  but  not  to  discontinuity;  the  partial 
differential  equations  of  elasticity  as  well  as  those  of  hydro- 
dynamics imply  that  the  medium  studied  is  continuous. 

Yet  the  atomic  hypothesis,  the  tradition  of  which  goes 
back  to  the  Greek  philosophers,  was  not  abandoned;  apart 
from  the  confirmation  which  it  found  in  the  properties  of 
gases  and  in  the  laws  of  chemistry,  it  was  by  means  of  that 
hypothesis  that  certain  phenomena,  such  as  the  compressi- 
bility of  liquids  or  the  permeability  of  solids,  had  to  be 
explained,  in  spite  of  the  apparent  continuity  of  these  two 
states  of  matter;  but  this  hypothesis  was  placed  in  juxtaposi- 
tion with  the  physical  theories  based  on  continuity:  it  did 
not  affect  them.  The  rapid  advances  in  thermodynamics  and 
in  the  theories  of  energy  contributed  to  maintain  this  sort  of 
impenetrable  partition  between  the  physical  theories  and  the 
hypothesis  of  the  existence  of  atoms,  however  fruitful  this 
might  prove  to  be  in  chemistry.  For  most  of  the  physicists 
of  half  a  century  ago  the  problem  of  the  reality  of  atoms 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

was  a  metaphysical  question,  in  the  original  acceptance  of 
the  term,  a  question  beyond  the  domain  of  physics;  it  mat- 
tered little  to  science  whether  atoms  existed  or  were  simple 
fictions,  and  one  might  even  doubt  whether  there  was  any 
sense  in  affirming  or  denying  their  existence.  However,  thanks 
especially  to  the  labors  of  Maxwell  and  of  Boltzmann,  the 
explicit  introduction  of  molecules  into  the  theory  of  gases 
and  solutions  was  proving  its  fruitfulness;  and  Gibbs  created 
the  new  study  to  which  he  gave  the  name  Statistical  Me- 
chanics.    But  it  is  only  within  the  last  twenty  years  that  all 
physicists  have  been  compelled,  by  the  study  of  new  radi- 
ations on  the  one  hand,  and  by  the  study  of  the  Brownian 
movement  on  the  other,  to  consider  the  molecular  hypothesis 
as  indispensable  to  natural  philosophy.  And  more  recently  a 
more  thorough  study  of  the  laws  of  radiation  has  led  to  the 
unexpected  hypothesis  of  the  discontinuity  of  energy,  or  of 
motion.    It  does  not  come  within  my  subject  to  expound  the 
experimental  proofs  which  make  these  hypotheses  seem  more 
and  more  probable  every  day;  the  most  striking  experiments 
are  perhaps  those  which  have  made  it  possible  to  observe 
the  individual  emissions  of  the  a  particles,  so  that  we  are 
actually  able  to  apprehend  one  of  the  concrete  units  with 
which  the  physicist  builds  up  the  sensible  universe,  just  as 
the  abstract  universe  of  mathematics  can  be  built  up  by 
means  of  an  abstract  unit. 

In  order  definitely  to  formulate  their  hypotheses  and  to 
deduce  therefrom  consequences  that  can  be  experimentally 
verified,  the  theorists  of  modern  physics  make  use  of  mathe- 
matical symbols;  these  symbols  are  those  which  were  ere- 
ated  on  the  basis  of  the  notion  of  continuity;  no  wonder, 
therefore,  if  difficulties  sometimes  appear,  the  most  recent 
of  which  is  the  contradiction,  at  least  in  appearance,  between 
the  hypothesis  of  the  quanta  and  the  older  hypothesis  that 


\ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

phenomena  are  governed  by  differential  equations.  But 
these  difficulties  of  principle  do  not  prevent  the  success  of 
what  may  be  called  partial  theories,  by  which  a  certain  num- 
ber of  experimental  results,  in  spite  of  their  apparent  di- 
versity, can  be  deduced  from  a  small  number  of  formulas 
which  are  coherent  among  themselves;  thus,  for  many  of 
the  phenomena  of  physical  optics,  the  formulae  are  the  same 
in  the  mechanical  theory  of  Fresnel  and  in  the  electromag- 
netic theory  of  Maxwell;  in  the  same  way,  the  formulae  used 
by  electrical  engineers  are  independent  of  the  diversity  of 
theories  concerning  the  nature  of  the  current. 

If  I  have  made  it  a  point  to  call  your  attention  to  this  use 
of  the  mathematical  instrument  as  an  auxiliary  to  the  partial 
physical  theories,  although  it  does  not  lie  within  my  sub- 
ject, it  is  in  order  to  prevent  any  misunderstanding:  it  seems 
to  me  beyond  doubt  that  for  a  long  time  to  come— perhaps 
as  long  as  human  science  itself  shall  endure— it  will  be  under 
this  comparatively  modest  form  that  mathematics  will  prove 
of  greatest  use  to  physicists.  This  is  no  reason  why  we 
should  take  no  interest  in  the  general  mathematical  theories 
for  which  physics  has  provided  the  models,  whether  we  have 
to  deal  with  speculations  on  partial  differential  equations 
suggested  by  the  physics  of  the  continuum,  or  with  statistical 
speculations  pertaining  to  the  physics  of  the  discontinuum; 
but  it  should  be  clearly  understood  that  the  new  mathemati- 
cal  theories  which  may  be  suggested  by  the  discontinuity  of 
physical  phenomena  cannot  have  the  pretension  of  entirely 
replacing  classical  mathematics;  these  are  only  new  aspects, 
for  which  it  is  proper  to  make  room  by  the  side  of  the  older 
views,  so  as  to  increase  as  much  as  possible  the  richness  of 
the  abstract  world,  wherein  we  seek  for  models  which  will 
make  us  understand  concrete  phenomena  better  and  foresee 
them  more  accurately. 

D50 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


III 

It  is  frequently  a  simplification  in  mathematics  to  replace 
a  very  large  finite  number  by  infinity.    Thus  the  calculus  of 
definite  integrals  is  frequently  more  simple  than  that  of  sum- 
mation formula,  and  the  differential  calculus  is  usually  sim- 
pler than  that  of  finite  differences.     In  the  same  way,  we 
have  been  led  to  replace  the  simultaneous  study  of  a  very 
lar-e  number  of  functions  of  one  variable  by  the  study  of 
a  continuous  infinitude  of  functions  of  one  variable;  that  is 
to  say,  by  the  study  of  a  function  of  two  variables.     By  a 
bolder  generalization.  Professor  Vito  Volterra  has  been  led 
to  define  functions  which  depend  on  other  functions-that  is 
to  say,  in  the  simplest  case,  functions  of  lines,  in  considering 
them  as  the  limiting  cases  of  functions  which  would  depend 
on  a  great  number  of  variables,  or,  if  one  prefers,  on  a  very 
great  number  of  points  of  the  line. 

These  various  generalizations  have  rapidly  secured  per- 
manent recognition  in  mathematical  physics;  the  use  of  inte- 
gral equations,  the  classical  types  of  which  are  the  equation 
of  Volterra  and  the  equation  of  Fredholm,  has  become  cur- 
rent Although  these  theories  are  well  known  to  all,  it  may 
not  be  idle  to  recall  their  origin  by  means  of  a  particularly 
simple  example ;  we  shall  thus  better  understand  their  sig- 
nificance from  our  present  point  of  view. 

Let  us  consider  a  system  composed  of  a  finite  number  of 
material  points,  each  of  which  can  deviate  only  by  a  small 
amount  from  a  certain  position  of  stable  equilibrium.  The 
differential  equations  which  determine  the  variations  of  these 
deviations  from  their  position  of  equilibrium  may  be  con- 
sidered, under  certain  hypotheses  and  to  a  first  approxima- 
tion, as  linear  in  respect  to  these  deviations.    If,  moreover, 

1:353: 


II 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

we  introduce  the  hypothesis  that  the  system  conforms  to  the 
law  of  the  conservation  of  energy,  the  differential  equations 
assume  a  very  simple  and  classical  form,  from  which  the  fact 
can  easilv  be  deduced  that  the  motion  may  be  considered  as 
the  superposition  of  a  certain  number  of  periodic  motions. 
The  number  of  these  elementary  periodic  motions  is  equal 
to  the  number  of  degrees  of  freedom;  it  is  three  times  the 
number  of  the  material  points,  if  each  of  these  points  can  be 
arbitrarily  displaced  in  the  neighborhood  of  its  position  of 
equilibrium.  The  periods  of  the  simple  periodic  motions  are 
the  specific  constants  of  the  system,  which  depend  only  on  its 
configuration  and  the  hypotheses  made  concerning  the  forces 
brought  into  action  by  its  deformation,  but  which  do  not 
depend  on  the  initial  conditions:  positions  and  velocities. 
These  initial  conditions  determine  the  arbitrary  constants 
which  figure  In  the  general  integral  and  which  are  two  in 
number  for  each  period :  the  intensity  and  the  phase. 

Now  let  us  suppose  that  the  number  of  material  points 
becomes  very  large,  and  let  us  Identify  each  of  them  with  a 
molecule  of  a  soHd  body— a  bar  of  steel,  for  Instance;  if  our 
hypotheses  are  still  verified— and  this  Is  admitted  in  the 
theory  of  elasticity- their  consequences  also  will  remam 
true;  we  shall  then  have  a  very  large  number  of  character- 
istic constants,  each  of  these  constants  defining  a  proper 
period  of  the  system.  Let  us  Increase  to  infinity  the  number 
of  molecules;  the  system  of  differential  equations.  Infinitely 
great  in  number,  Is  then  replaced  by  a  finite  number  of  par- 
tial differential  equations,  whose  fundamental  properties  are 
obtained  by  passing  to  the  limit.  In  particular,  the  proper 
periods  can  be  determined,  and  this  remarkable  result  is 
established— that  these  periods  can  be  calculated  with  pre- 
cision and  without  ambiguity  if  we  take  the  precaution  of 
defining  them  by  commencing  with  the  longest;  there  is  only 

[354:1 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

a  finite  number  of  periods  superior  to  a  given  interval,  but 
this  number  increases  indefinitely  when  the  interval  tends 

toward  zero.  ,.      ,  •     .  t 

The  reasoning  which  has  just  been  outhned  is  the  type  ot 
those  to  which  the  substitution  of  continuity  for  discontinuity 
leads-  in  reality,  the  considerations  based  on  the  existence  of 
molecules  play  but  an  auxiliary  part  in  them ;  they  put  us  on 
the  track  of  the  solution,  but  this  solution,  once  arrived  at, 
satisfies  rigorously  the  partial  differential  equations  of  Lame, 
equations  which  can  be  deduced  just  as  well  from  theories 
of  energy  as  from  molecular  hypotheses.     The  molecular 
theory  has  therefore  been  a  valuable  guide  for  the  analyst 
in  suggesting  to  him  the  course  to  be  followed  in  studying 
the  equations  of  the  problem,  but  it  is  eliminated  from  the 
final  solution.     On  the  other  hand,  we  know  that  this  solu- 
tion is  but  an  imperfect  representation  of  reality;  we  obtain 
an  infinitude  of  proper  periods,  instead  of  a  very  great  num- 
ber of  them;  the  actual  number,  however,  is  so  great  that 
we  ought  not,  perhaps,  to  feel  any  scruple  in  passing  to  the 
hmit  and  considering  it  as  practically  infinite.    If,  however, 
one  bears  in  mind  that  the  difficulties  of  the  theory  of  black 
radiation  arise  precisely  from  the  very  short  periods,  and 
that  these  difficulties  are  not  yet  solved  in  an  entirely  satis- 
factory manner,  one  will  perhaps  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
one  could  not  be  too  careful  about  anything  which  relates  to 
these  very  short  periods.    This  is  probably  the  reason  why 
such  a  physicist  as  Lorentz  has  thought  that  the  considerable 
analytical  efforts  required  by  the  study  of  the  propagation 
of  waves,  when  molecules  are  explicitly  introduced  into  it, 
were  not  superfluous.     However  this  may  be,  even  if  the 
substitution  of  the  infinite  for  the  finite  is  entirely  legitimate 
in  certain  problems,  it  may  be  interesting  to  propose  to  one  s 
self,  from  a  purely  mathematical  point  of  view,  the  direct 

n35s:i 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

study  of  functions  or  equations  depending  upon  a  great  but 
finite  number  of  variables. 

IV 

The  first  difficulty  which  presents  itself,  when  one  wishes 
to  study  functions  of  a  very  great  number  of  variables,  is 
the  exact  definition  of  such  a  function— I  mean  its  individual 
definition— making  it  possible  to   distinguish  the   function 
thus  defined  from  the  infinitude  of  other  analogous  func- 
tions.   It  is  true  that  there  exist  general  properties  common 
to  all  the  mathematical  entities  of  a  certain  category,  indepen- 
dent of  the  numerical  value  of  the  coefficients;  for  instance, 
every  definite  quadratic  form    (that  is  to  say,  one  always 
positive)  is  equal  to  the  sum  of  the  squares  of  as  many  inde- 
pendent linear  functions  as  the  number  of  the  variables 
which  it  contains.     One  has  at  times  attempted  to  deduce 
physical  consequences  from  mathematical  facts  of  that  kind; 
I  must  confess  that  I  cannot  help  being  skeptical  about  this 
sort  of  reasoning ;  it  may  seem  rather  strange  that  one  should 
be  able  to  deduce  anything  exact  from  such  a  general  notion 
as  that  of  a  surface  of  the  second  degree  (let  us  say,  for 
fixing  ideas,  a  generalized  ellipsoid)  in  a  space  having  a  very 
great  number  of  dimensions.     Let  us  insist  a  little  on  the 
difficulty  there  is  in  knowing  such  an  ellipsoid  individually: 
its  equation  may  be  supposed  to  be  reduced  to  a  sum  of 
squares  by  an  orthogonal  substitution— that  is  to  say,  the 
axes  remaining  rectangular.    Such  an  ellipsoid  then  requires, 
for  its  complete  definition,  the  knowledge  of  what  we  may 
call  the  squares  of  the  lengths  of  its  axes— that  is  to  say,  the 
knowledge  of  as  many  positive  numbers  as  the  space  consid- 
ered has  dimensions.    The  question  of  knowing  whether  one 
can  consider  as  given  so  many  numbers,  when  a  man's  life- 
time would  not  suffice  to  enumerate  a  small  part  of  them,  is 

1356-2 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

a  question  which  is  not  without  analogy  with  that  of  the 
legitimacy  of  certain  reasonings  of  the  theory  of  ensembles, 
such  as  the  one  by  which  Professor  Zermelo  Pretends  to 
prove  that  the  continuum  can  be  well  ordered,  and  which 
supposes  to  be  realized  an  infinitude  of  choices  mdependent 
of  any  law,  and  yet  uniquely  determined.     Opm.ons  may 
differ  on  the  theoretical  solution  of  these  difficulties  and  this 
is  not  the  moment  to  reopen  this  controversy  but  from  the 
practical  point  of  view,  the  answer  is  not  doubtful:  it  is  not 
possible  effectively  to  write  the  numerical  equation  of  an 
ellipsoid  whose  axes  are  as  numerous  as  the  molecules  con- 
stituting a  gram  of  hydrogen.  , 

In  what  sense  then  is  it  possible  to  speak  of  a  numencally 
determined   ellipsoid   possessing   a   very  large   number  o 
dimensions?    From  an  abstract  point  of  view,  the  simplest 
method  for  defining  such  an  ellipsoid  consists  in  supposing 
that  the  lengths  of  the  axes  are  equal  to  the  values  of  a  cer 
tain  function  which  is  simple  for  the  integral  values  of  the 
variable;  one  may  suppose  them  to  be  all  equal  (in  which 
case  one  will  say  that  the  ellipsoid  is  reduced  to  a  sphere)  , 
one  may  also  suppose  that  their  values  are  the  successive 
integral  numbers  in  their  natural  sequence,  either  starting 
from  number  one  or  from  any  other  given  number;  or  that 
they  are  equal  to  the  inverses  of  the  squares  of  these  inte- 
gers   etc.     In  other  words,  we  suppose  that  the  lengths  of 
the  'axes  are  all  determined  by  the  knowledge  of  a  for- 
mula simple  enough  to  be  actually  written,  whereas  it  is  no 
possible  actually  to  write  as  many  distinct  numbers  as  there 

'' Another  method,  to  which  we  are  naturally  led  by  the 
analogies  with  the  kinetic  theory  of  gases,  consists  m  sup- 
posing that  the  values  of  a  function  of  the  axes,  such  as  the 
square  of  the  lengths  of  the  axes,  or  of  the.r  inverses,  etc., 

1:3573 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

are  not  individually  given,  but  that  we  know  only  the  mean 
value  of  this  function,  and  the  law  of  the  distribution  of  the 
other  values  around  this  mean.  We  propose,  under  these 
conditions,  not  to  study  the  property  of  a  unique  and  well 
defined  ellipsoid,  but  only  the  most  probable  properties  of 
the  ellipsoid,  knowing  only  that  it  satisfies  the  required  con- 
ditions; we  can  also  say  that  we  study  the  mean  properties 
of  the  ensemble  of  the  ellipsoids  defined  by  these  conditions. 
Here  again  we  may  observe  that  the  probable  ellipsoid  or  the 
mean  ellipsoid  is  completely  defined  by  the  knowledge  of 
the  mean  value  of  the  law  of  deviations.  If  this  law  is 
the  classic  law  of  probabilities.  It  Includes  only  two  constants; 
if  we  were  led  to  Introduce  a  more  complicated  law,  this 
law  might  In  all  cases  be  explicitly  written.  The  two  pro- 
cesses that  we  have  indicated  are  therefore  equivalent  from 
the  analytical  point  of  view;  it  would  evidently  be  the  same 
with  all  other  processes  that  could  be  imagined,  and  in  par- 
ticular with  the  combinations  of  these  two. 

In  a  word,  a  figure  which  depends  on  an  extremely  great 
number  of  parameters  can  be  considered  as  numerically  de- 
terminate only  If  these  parameters  are  defined  by  means  of 
numerical  data  sufficiently  few  In  number  to  be  accessible  to 
us.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  the  study  of  the  geometrical 
figures  In  a  space  possessing  an  extremely  great  number  of 
dimensions  can  lead  to  general  laws  If  we  can  exclude  from 
this  study  such  of  these  figures  as,  humanly  speaking,  can- 
not possibly  be  defined  Individually. 

Here  are,  for  example,  some  of  the  results  to  which  the 
study  of  ellipsoids  leads  us.  In  working  the  equation  In  the 
form  of  a  sum  of  squares,  the  second  member  being  reduced 
to  unity,  the  coefficients  are  equal  to  the  reciprocals  of  the 
squares  of  the  axes.  If  the  mean  of  the  squares  of  these 
coefficients  is  of  the  same  order  of  magnitude  as  the  square 

Dssn 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

of  their  mean,  one  will  say  that  the  ellipsoid  Is  not  very 
irregular.     The  modes  of  definition  concerning  which  we 
have  just  spoken  lead  to  ellipsoids  which  are  not  very  irregu- 
lar, since  one  does  not  systematically  Introduce  Into  those 
definitions  functions  purposely  chosen  in  a  complicated  man- 
ner.     On  the  contrary,  one  gets  a  very  irregular  ellipsoid 
in  equating  to  a  constant  the  vis  viva  of  a  deformable  system 
composed  of  a  very  great  number  of  molecules,  this  vis  viva 
being  written  under  the  classic  form  of  the  sum  of  the  vis 
viva  of  translation  of  the  total  mass  concentrated  at  the  cen- 
ter of  gravity,  increased  by  the  sum  of  the  vires  viva  of  the 
molecules  in  their  motion  relative  to  this  center  of  gravity. 
The  great  Irregularity  comes  from  the  fact  that  the  products 
of  the  total  mass  by  the  three  components  of  the  velocity 
of  the  center  of  gravity  are  extremely  great  in  comparison 
with  the  other  terms.    When  an  ellipsoid  is  not  very  irregu- 
lar, several  of  Its  properties  make  it  possible  to  assimilate  It 
to  a  sphere,  which  may  be  called  the  median  sphere;  the  sur- 
face  of  the  ellipsoid  is  almost  wholly  comprised  between  the 
surfaces  of  two  spheres  very  close  to  the  median  sphere;  on 
the  other  hand,  if  a  point  Is  arbitrarily  chosen  on  the  ellip- 
soid. It  is  infinitely  probable  that  the  normal  at  this  point 
passes  extremely  close  to  the  center. 

This  geometrical  study  of  figures  with  a  very  large  num- 
ber of  dimensions  deserves,  I  believe,  to  be  thoroughly  in- 
vestigated; It  brings  out  the  abstract  basis  of  the  theories  of 
statistical  mechanics  and  physics-that  Is  to  say,  it  en- 
ables us  to  distinguish,  among  the  propositions  to  which 
physicists  are  led,  those  which  are  a  consequence  of  physical 
hypotheses  from  those  which  are  derived  only  from  statis- 
tical hypotheses.  But,  apart  from  its  physical  usefulness, 
this  geometrical  study  of  spaces  having  a  very  great  number 
of  dimensions  offers  an  interest  of  its  own;  it  is  to  the 

[359!] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 
molecular  theories  that  we  are  indebted  for  this  new  branch 
of  mathematics. 

V 

We  can,  however,  ask  ourselves  whether  it  is  legitimate 
to  consider  as  bound  up  with  the  molecular  hypothesis  a 
theory  which,  after  all,  should  depend  exclusively  on  a  smal 
.lumber  of  constants.    To  say  that  an  ellipsoid  with  a  great 
number  of  dimensions  is  entirely  defined  by  five  or  six  con- 
stants, amounts  to  saying  that  all  the  consequences  which  we 
shall  deduce  from  its  study  can  be  expressed  by  means  of 
these  five  or  six  constants.    Can  we  not  suppose,  then,  that 
an  analytical  mechanism  could  be  devised,  enabling  us  to 
arrive  at  these  same  consequences,  expressed  by  means  ot 
the  five  or  six  constants,  without  its  being  necessary  to  bring 
in  the  equation  with  a  very  great  number  of  terms-that  is 
to  say,  without  its  being  necessary  to  make  use  of  the  molecu- 
lar hypothesis.  . 

This  objection  deserves  careful  consideration,  although  it 
reminds  us  of  the  controversy  between  the  energetists  and 
the  atomists,  a  controversy  in  which  the  advantage  seems 
decidedly  to  have  been  on  the  side  of  the  atomists.     It  may 
be  answered,  in  the  first  place,  with  an  argument  of  fact:  it 
matters  little  that  we  might  conceive  the  possibility,  without 
making  use  of  molecular  hypotheses,  of  combimng  among 
themselves  the  consequences  of  these  hypotheses;  the  impor- 
tant point  is  to  know  whether  this  possibility  is  realized  at 
present,  or  if,  on  the  contrary,  the  calculations  based  upon 
molecular  hypotheses  are  the  simplest,  if  not  the  only,  mode 
of  deduction.     If  the  latter  alternative  be  correct,  and  it 
seems  difficult  to  deny  that  it  is,  molecular  hypotheses  are 
therefore  at  present  very  necessary  indeed,  and  that  alone 
ought  to  be  of  consequence  to  us. 

n36o: 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Under  this  modest  form,  which  leaves  room  for  future 
contingencies,  this  reply  seems  peremptory;  but  I  believe  that 
many  physicists  would  think  it  is  not  categorical  enough.    It 
must  be  noted,  however,  that  the  question  is  independent  of 
the  experimental  proofs  of  the  reality  of  molecules.    Even 
if  we  should  succeed  in  seeing,  by  means  of  an  instrument 
more  powerful  than  a  microscope,  the  molecules  of  a  solid 
body,  it  would  not  follow,  however  valuable  this  knowledge 
might  be,  that  one  should  have  to  use  it  in  order  to  account, 
in  the  simplest  possible  manner,  for  the  properties  of  that 
body;  in  a  similar  way,  the  possibility  of  seeing  an  isolated 
microbe  under  the  microscope  is  not  an  indispensable  condi- 
tion for  the  attenuation  of  the  viruses  and  the  use  of  vac- 
cines; or  again,  in  the  reproduction  of  a  masterpiece  by 
photogravure,  it  is  not  the  individual  knowledge  of  the 
points  constituting  the  negative  that  interests  us.' 

From  an  abstract  point  of  view,  if  we  admit  that  any 
human  theory  must  be  expressed,  in  last  analysis,  by  means 
of  a  finite  and  relatively  small  number  of  data,  it  seems 
difficult  to  deny  the  possibility  of  entirely  constituting  the 
theory,  without  introducing  hypotheses  which  imply  the  exis- 
tence of  elements  more  numerous  than  human  imagination 
can  conceive.  But  the  recognition  of  this  abstract  possibility 
cannot  prevail  against  the  importance  of  the  services  ren- 
dered by  molecular  theories  in  linking  together  apparently 
unrelated  phenomena;  so  it  is  permissible  to  consider  these 
reserves  on  future  possibilities  as  purely  theoretical. 

1  Xl,;,  JnHiviHual  knowledge  of  pomts  has  a  part  in  the  processes  for  trans- 
mitting the  nKative  to  a  distance ;  but  in  this  case  these  pomts  however 
numerous  are  none  the  less  finite  in  number  and  accesstble  to  our  ob-rvat,on^ 

Lre^ici^tL^'ibf  ;?^e^"arrr;asi  air.';u:  z  "5ts  :rc^'rt  ^ 

:  ^r    fons  wMch  would  rehire  too  much  time  to  be  kno,v.  -^n-u^ua    y ;  b  t 
in  fact  these  elementary  v  brations  have  nothmg  to  do  with  musical  sestnetics 
an  excellem  composer'^mav  be  ignorant  of  their  existence,  and  an  excellent 
physicist  may  be  a  wretched  musician. 

D60 


\] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Is  it  possible  to  go  still  further,  and  to  do  away  even  with 
this  kind  of  reserve?     In  order  to  answer  this  question   we 
should  have  to  examine  in  detail  all  the  phenomena  which 
are  explained  by  means  of  molecular  hypotheses,  and  to  try 
to  ascertain  whether  an  extremely  large  number  of  param- 
eters is  indeed  necessary  to  such  explanation.     Among  the 
discontinuous  phenomena  whose  experimental  lawsare  well 
known,  the  most  characteristic  are  those  of  spectra  m  series; 
we  know  that  the  positions  of  the  spectral  rays  are  deter- 
mined with  a  very  great  precision  by  formula   the  first  and 
simplest  of  which,  due  to  Balmer,  includes  the  difference  of  the 
reciprocals  of  the  squares  of  two  integers.    This  is  perhaps 
the  most  remarkable  example  of  the  intervention  of  the  inte- 
ger in  natural  law;  if  laws  of  this  kind  were  more  numerous 
and  better  known,  one  might  possibly  be  led  to  name  arith- 
metic and  the  theory  of  numbers  among  the  branches  of 
mathematics  which  can  be  connected  with  molecular  physics. 
Can  one,  by  induction,  admit  that  the  formula  of  Balmer  is 
exact,  not  only  for  small  integers  concerning  which  the  ex- 
perimental verification  is  rigorous,  but  for  many  other  larger 
integers   concerning  which  this   verification  is   impossible? 
And  if  such  be  the  case,  is  it  not  one  of  those  discontinuous 
phenomena  whose  explanation  requires  a  very  large  number 
of  parameters?    It  does  not  seem  so:  on  the  one  hand,  the 
formula  with  the  variable  integer  contains  in  fact  but  a  small 
number  of  constants;  on  the  other  hand,  the  attempts  made 
for  explaining  the  presence  of  this  integer  by  hypotheses  of 
physical  discontinuity  have  led  to  the  placing  of  this  dis- 
continuity within  the  atom  itself;  there  is  consequently  no 
need  of  a  ven'  large  number  of  atoms :  one  alone  is  sufficient, 
whose   structure   depends  only  on  certain  parameters,   on 
magnetons  in  the  theory  of  Ritz,  parameters  the  number  of 
which  is  far  from  being  of  the  same  order  as  the  number  of 
the  atoms. 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

This  remark  leads  us  to  consider  another  category  of  phe- 
nomena, to  which  we  have  already  alluded,  and  in  which  the 
atoms  or  corpuscles  are  observed  individually.    Does  not  the 
explanation  of  these  phenomena  require  atomic  hypotheses? 
It  seems  difficult  to  deny  it  without  being  paradoxical.    Let 
us  note,  however,  that  such  phenomena  as  the  emission  of 
the  a  particles  are  susceptible  only  of  a  globate  explanation; 
it  is  not  possible  to  foresee  with  accuracy  any  particular 
emission,  but  only  a  mean  number;  scientifically  speaking, 
therefore,  this  mean  number  alone  has  any  existence;  the 
phenomenon  which  consists  in  the  emission  of  one  a  particle 
does  not  present  the  characters  which  permit  of  rigorous 
experimentation:  one  cannot  either  foresee  it  or  reproduce 
it  at  will ;  it  is  only  the  study  of  the  trajectory  after  the  emis- 
sion that  offers  these  characters;  and  in  fact  this  study  re- 
quires only  such  a  limited  number  of  equations  that  one  can 
write  them  all.    The  atomic  hypotheses  would  enable  us  to 
foresee  each  individual  emission,  if  one  could  in  fact  calcu- 
late with  reference  to  an  extremely  great  number  of  equa- 
tions; but  that  is  not  possible,  and  so  far  as  the  globate 
prevision  is  concerned  the  atomic  hypothesis  is  not,  at  least 
a  priori,  necessary. 

We  touch  here  upon  the  borders  of  science,  since  we  reach 
phenomena  accessible  to  our  observation,  and  which  depend 
upon  causes  too  numerous  for  us  ever  to  know  them  with 
precision  in  their  full  complexity.  Science  remains  possible 
only  for  mean  values  which  can  be  calculated  with  precision 
by  means  of  data  accessible  to  observation. 

It  is  well  understood,  I  hope,  that  I  do  not  dispute  the 
legitimacy  and  usefulness  of  molecular  theories;  my  remarks 
as  a  mathematician  cannot  attain  physical  reality;  at  the  bot- 
tom, they  do  not  go  farther  than  this:  all  the  calculations 
we  shall  ever  be  able  really  to  effect  will  comprise  only  a 
rather  limited  number  of  equations  actually  written;  if  we 

[363] 


S\ 


T 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

write  one  equation,  and  if  we  add  that  we  consider  several 
billions  of  analogous  equations,  we  do  not,  in  fact,  calculate 
these  unwritten  equations,  but  only  the  written  equation,  tak- 
ing into  account  perhaps  the  number  of  these  unwritten  equa- 
tions, a  number  which  also  has  been  written.  Every  mathe- 
matical theory,  therefore,  reduces  itself  to  a  relatively  small 
number  of  equations  and  calculations,  which  involve  a 
relatively  small  number  of  symbols  and  numerical  constants; 
it  is  therefore  not  absurd  a  priori  to  suppose  that  one  might 
conceive  a  physical  model  containing  also  a  relatively  small 
number  of  parameters  and  leading  to  the  same  equations. 
As  long,  however,  as  this  model  has  not  been  imagined— and 
perhaps  it  will  never  be— the  analytical  or  geometrical  re- 
searches on  functions  of  a  very  large  but  finite  number  of 
variables  will  offer  some  interest  for  the  physicists. 


VI 

We  have  already  observed  that  it  is  an  ordinary  proceed- 
ing in  mathematics  to  replace  a  very  large  finite  by  an  infinite. 
What  result  does  this  method  yield  when  it  is  applied  to 
physically  discontinuous  phenomena,  whose  complexity  seems 
bound  up  with  the  very  large  number  of  molecules?  Such, 
for  instance,  are  the  phenomena  of  the  Brownian  movement, 
which  is  observed  when  very  fine  particles  are  in  suspension 
in  an  apparently  quiet  liquid.  These  phenomena  fall  within 
the  category  of  those  we  were  mentioning  a  moment  ago,  of 
which  none  but  a  statistical  foreknowledge  is  possible. 

Is  it  possible  to  construct  an  analytical  image  of  such  phe- 
nomena? Professor  Jean  Perrin^  has  already  called  atten- 
tion to  the  fact  that  the  trajectories  observed  in  the  Brownian 

1  Jean  Perrin,  "La  discontinuite  de  la  matiere,"  Re^'ue  du  Mois,  mars  1906. 
See  also  Jean  Perrin,  "Les  Atomes,"  Alcan  1913. 

[364] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

movement  suggest  the  notion  of  continuous  functions  pos- 
sessing no  derivatives,  or  that  of  continuous  curves  pos- 
sessing no  tangent.  If  one  observes  these  trajectories  with 
optical  instruments  of  increasing  perfection,  one  sees,  at  each 
new  magnification,  new  details,  the  curvilinear  arc  that  we 
could  have  traced  being  replaced  by  a  sort  of  broken  line 
the  sides  of  which  form  a  finite  angle  with  each  other;  this 
remains  the  case  up  to  the  limit  of  the  magnifications  at  pres- 
ent possible.  If  we  admit  that  the  movement  is  produced 
by  the  impact  of  molecules  against  the  particle,  we  must 
conclude  that,  with  a  sufficient  magnifying  power,  we  should 
obtain  the  exact  form  of  trajectory,  which  would  present 
itself  under  the  form  of  a  broken  line  with  rounded  angles, 
and  which  would  not  be  perceptibly  modified  by  a  still  further 

magnification. 

But  the  analyst  is  not  forbidden  to  put  off  indefinitely  in 
his  thought  the  realization  of  this  final  state,  and  thus  to 
arrive  at  the  conception  of  a  curve  in  which  the  sinuosities 
become  finer  and  finer  as  one  uses  a  higher  magnification, 
without  ever  obtaining  the  final  sinuosities :  this  is  indeed  the 
geom.etrical  image  of  a  continuous  function  not  admitting  of 

a  derivative. 

We  obtain  also  a  curve  of  a  similar  nature,  sufficiently 
interesting  to  arrest  our  attention,  when  we  study  the  func- 
tion which  Boltzmann  designates  by  H  and  Gibbs  by  17,  and 
which  represents,  in  the  case  of  a  gas,  the  logarithm  of  the 
probability  of  a  determinate  distribution  of  the  velocities  of 
the  molecules.  Each  collision  between  two  molecules  gives 
a  sudden  variation  to  this  function,  which  is  thus  represented 
by  a  staircase  curve,  the  horizontal  projections  of  the  steps 
corresponding  to  the  intervals  of  time  which  separate  two 
collisions,  the  number  of  the  collisions  undergone  by  a  mole- 
cule being  some  billions  per  second  (that  is  to  say,  of  the 

[365:] 


mi 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

order  of  magnitude  lo^),  and  the  number  of  molecules  of 
the  order  of  magnitude  lo^^  (if  we  consider  a  mass  of  a  few 
grams  of  gas),  the  total  number  of  collisions  per  second  is 
of  the  order  of  magnitude  ic^^;  such  is  the  number  of  steps 
projected  on  a  portion  of  the  axis  of  the  abscissas  equal  to 
unity,  if  the  second  is  taken  as  the  unit  of  time.^  What  the 
physicists  consider  is  the  mean  behavior  of  the  curve.  They 
replace  the  serrated  curve  by  a  more  regular  curve  having 
the  same  mean  behavior  in  the  time  intervals,  which  are  very 
small  in  comparison  to  the  second,  but  very  great  in  com- 
parison to  lO"^^  of  a  second. 

These  diverse  considerations  bring  interesting  suggestions 
to  the  analyst,  on  which  I  should  like  to  dwell  for  a  moment. 

In  the  first  place,  referring  to  the  continuous  curves  with- 
out derivatives  of  which  the  Brownian  movement  has  given 
us  the  image,  should  the  passage  from  the  finite  to  the  infinite 
lead  to  a  curve  all  of  whose  points  are  points  of  discontinu- 
ity, or  to  a  curve  which  admits  an  infinitude  of  points  of  dis- 
continuity, but  also  an  infinitude  of  points  of  continuity?  For 
a  proper  understanding  of  the  question,  it  is  necessary  briefly 
to  recall  the  capital  distinction  between  denumerable  infinity 
and  continuous  infinity.  An  infinite  ensemble  is  said  to  be 
denumerable  if  its  terms  can  be  numbered  by  means  of  inte- 
gers. Such  is  the  case  for  the  ensemble  composed  of  terms 
of  a  simple  or  multiple  series;  we  can  also  cite  as  a  denu- 
merable ensemble  the  ensemble  of  the  rational  numbers.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  ensemble  of  all  the  numbers  comprised 
between  o  and  i,  both  commensurable  and  incommensurable, 
is  not  denumerable:  we  say  that  this  ensemble  has  the  same 
power  as  the  continuum.     If  we  define  a  discontinuous  func- 

1  This  discontinuity  supposes  evidently  that  we  consider  the  duration  of  a 
collision  as  less  than  the  mean  interval  of  two  collisions  (in  the  whole  mass), 
a  hypothesis  difficult  to  admit.  The  schema^  to  which  this  hypothesis  leads 
is  not  less  interesting  from  the  analytical  point  of  view. 

[366;] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

tion  by  a  series  each  term  of  which  admits  a  point  of  discon- 
tinuity, the  ensemble  of  these  points  of  discontinuity  is  de- 
numerable, as  are  the  terms  themselves.    Can  we  determine 
a  function  which  shall  be  totally  discontinuous— that  is  to  say, 
one  whose  points  of  discontinuity  shall  be  all  the  points  of  a 
continuous  ensemble,  and  not  merely  those  of  a  denumerable 
ensemble?    It  would  seem  to  be  easy  to  imagine  such  a  func- 
tion.   Such  is  the  oft-studied  function  which  is  equal  to  i  if  x 
is  commensurable  and  to  x  if  x  is  incommensurable;  this 
function  is  indeed  discontinuous,  as  much  so  for  the  com- 
mensurable values  as  for  the  incommensurable  values.     If 
we  look  a  little  closer,  we  perceive  that  the  discontinuity  is 
not  the  same  in  these  points:  we  must  note,  in  fact,  that  the 
commensurable  numbers  occupy  infinitely  less  space  in  the 
axis  of  the  x's  than  do  the  incommensurable  numbers;  the 
ensemble  of  these  commensurable  numbers  is  of  dimension 
zero— that  is  to  say,  it  can  be  confined  within  intervals  whose 
total  extent  is  less  than  any  number  given  in  advance.  Speak- 
ing  in  more  concrete  terms,  if  we  choose  a  number  at  ran- 
dom, the  probability  that  it  will  be  commensurable  is  equal 
to  zero.i    \Ye  therefore  conclude  that  the  function  equal  to 
X  for  the  incommensurable  values  of  the  variable  is,  on  an 
average,  continuous  for  these  incommensurable  values,  what- 
ever its  values  may  be  for  the  commensurable  values— that 
is  to  say,  if  we  choose  in  the  neighborhood  of  an  incommen- 
surable value,  for  which  we  study  the  continuity,  another 
value  taken  at  random,  it  is  infinitely  probable  that  this  value 
taken  at  random  will  also  be  incommensurable;  it  is  then 
infinitely  probable  that  the  variation  of  the  function  will  be 
infinitely  small  when  the  variation  of  the  variable  is  small. 

1  To  eive  one's  self  a  number  at  random,  one  may  agree  to  choose  at  ran- 
dom the  successive  figures  of  the  decimal  fraction  which  is  equal  to  it ;  the 
probability  that  this  decimal  fraction  will  be  finite  or  periodic  is  evidentU 
equal  to  zero. 

[367] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

This  remark  enables  us  to  understand  that  it  has  not  been 
found  possible  to  define  analytically  a  function  all  the  points 
of  which  are  effectively  points  of  total  discontinuity;  it  is 
only  in  points  determined  according  to  the  definition  of  the 
function,  and  playing  a  particular  part  in  this  definition,  that 
the  function  Is  actually  discontinuous  on  an  average. 

The  passing  from  the  finite  to  the  infinite,  when  we  are 
concerned  with  the  discontinuity  of  functions,  is,  then,  not 
effected  after  the  manner  which  is  most  usual  in  classical 
mathematical  physics,  in  which  matter  is  supposed  to  be  con- 
tinuous, and  in  which  the  finite  is  replaced  by  the  continu- 
ous; we  are  led  to  conceive  a  different  process,  which  seems, 
besides,  more  in  harmony  with  the  molecular  conception,  and 
which  consists  in  replacing  the  very  great  finite  by  the  denu- 

merable  infinite. 

This  is  the  way  In  which  the  analytical  generalization  of 
such  curves  as  the  H  curves  presents  itself  from  this  point 
of  view.  Let  us  consider  a  number  written  In  the  form  of 
an  Intermlnate  decimal  fraction,  and  let  us  imagine  that  the 
figures  which  follow  the  decimal  point  are  grouped  in  suc- 
cessive periods,  each  period  containing  many  more  figures 
than  the  preceding  period.  To  each  period  we  shall  cause 
to  correspond  one  term  of  a  series,  this  term  being  equal  to 
zero  If  in  the  corresponding  period  the  ratio  of  the  number 
of  even  figures  to  the  number  of  odd  figures  is  comprised 
between  0.4  and  0.6;  while  if  this  ratio  Is  not  comprised  be- 
tween these  limits,  the  term  corresponding  to  the  period  is 
equal  to  the  term  of  the  same  order  of  a  certain  convergent 
series  with  positive  terms.  It  is  clear  that,  if  the  lengths  of 
the  successive  periods  increase  rapidly,  it  Is  infinitely  proba- 
ble that  a  small  number  of  periods  only  will  furnish  terms 
different  from  zero;  consequently,  the  series  which  corre- 
sponds to  the  decimal  number  will  be  terminate;  this  termi- 

1:3681 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

nate  series  has  a  certain  sum,  which  remains  the  same  as  long 
as  the  decimal  number  varies  so  little  that  the  last  one  of  the 
periods  which  gave  a  term  to  the  series  is  not  modified;  at 
least  in  the  interval  thus  defined  it  is  extremely  probable  that 
the  function  corresponding  to  the  decimal  number  preserves 
this  constant  and  well  determined  value-that  is  to  say,  is 
represented  by  a  horizontal  line;  however,  there  are  in  this 
interval,  as  in  every  interval,  particular  decimal  numbers  for 
which  certain  periods  of  high  order,  perhaps  even  an  infini- 
tude of  such  periods,  are  irregular  from  the  point  of  view 
of  the  distribution  of  even  and  odd  figures;  there  are  then 
intervals  which  are  extremely  small,  and,  on  an  average, 
extremely  rare,  but  nevertheless  dense  everywhere,  in  which 
the  curve  runs  up  above  the  horizontal  line  which  in  general 
represents  it.     In  one  of  these  points,  which  we  may  call 
maxima  of  the  curve,  it  is  extremely  probable  that,  if  we  take 
a  value  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  variable  at  random,  the 
function  will  diminish-that  is  to  say,  that  this  point  has,  on 
an  average,  the  character  of  a  maximum  in  a  point. 

In  the  preceding  example  the  maxima  are  represented  by 
intervals  narrower  and  narrower,  but  finite;  in  modifying 
slightly  the  definition,  one  can  obtain  a  curve  which  would 
coincide  everywhere  with  the  axis  of  x,  except  in  points  not 
filling  any  interval;  it  is  sufficient  to  agree  that,  m  the  series 
which  we  have  just  defined,  we  replace  by  zero  every  term 
which  is  followed  by  an  infinitude  of  terms  equal  to  zero ; 
the  new  series  can  then  be  different  from  zero  only  if  the 
terms  of  the  first  series  are  all,  after  a  certain  place,  different 

from  zero.  .      ,  i     j 

The  study  of  analytical  models  thus  obtained  leads  us  to 
go  deeper  into  the  theory  of  functions  of  real  variables,  and 
even  to  conceive  new  notions  such  as  the  notion  of  average^ 
derivative,  naturally  suggested  by  the  physical  example  ot 

n3693 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

the  function  H.^  Besides,  it  is  necessary  to  observe  that  in 
the  study  of  these  functions  the  notion  of  continuous  en- 
semble is  often  combined  with  the  notion  of  denumerable 
ensemble;  for  example,  it  is  easy  to  see  that  the  ensemble  of 
decimal  numbers  whose  figures  are  all  odd  presents  certain 
characters  of  the  ensemble  of  all  the  decimal  numbers ;  it  has, 
as  we  say,  the  same  power  as  the  continuum,^  but  it  is,  how- 
ever, of  zero  dimension. 

We  may  also  connect  with  these  considerations  the  theory 
of  denumerable  probabilities— that  is  to  say,  the  study  of 
probabilities  in  the  case  in  which  either  the  infinitude  of 
trials  or  the  infinitude  of  possible  cases  is  denumerable— a 
study  lying  between  the  study  of  probabilities  in  the  finite 
cases  and  the  study  of  continuous  probabilities. 


VII 

In  spite  of  the  interest  of  problems  relating  to  functions  of 
a  real  variable,  it  is  the  theory  of  functions  of  a  complex 
variable  which,  since  the  immortal  discoveries  of  Cauchy,  is 
really  the  center  of  analysis.  The  analogy  between  the 
theory  of  the  functions  which  Cauchy  has  called  monogenic 
functions  and  which  are  often  called  analytical  functions,  and 
the  theory  of  Laplace's  equation  which  is  verified  by  poten- 
tials, is  undoubtedly  one  of  the  most  fruitful  analogies  in 
analysis.  We  know  all  the  advantage  Riemann  has  derived 
from  the  theory  of  potential  and  from  physical  intuition  in 
his  profound  researches  upon  the  functions  of  a  complex 
variable. 


^  Emile  Borel,  "Comptes  Rendus  de  rAcademie  des  Sciences  de  Paris,"  29 
avril  1912. 

If  in  a  decimal  number  all  of  whose  figures  are  odd  we  replace  the 
respective  figures  i,  3,  5,  7,  9  by  the  figures  o,  2,  3,  4,  we  may  consider  that 
number  as  any  number  whatever  written  in  the  system  whose  base  is  5. 


D703 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 
It  is  therefore  natural  to  ask  one's  self  what  new  ideas 
can  be  brought  by  molecular  theories  into  this  domain  of 
complex  variables.    Here  again  we  shall  be  led  to  replace 
the  very  large  finite  number  by  the  denumerable  infinity:  it 
is  easy  to  form  series  each  term  of  which  presents  a  singular 
point,"  the  ensemble  of  the  terms  of  the  series  thus  possessing 
a  denumerable  infinitude  of  singular  points.    These  singular 
points  may,  for  instance,  be  so  chosen  that  they  coincide  with 
all  such  points  among  the  points  inside  of  a  square  whose 
two  coordinates  are  rational.    The  most  simple  series  that 
we  can  thus  form  presents  itself  under  the  form  of  the  sum 
of  a  series  of  fractions  each  of  which  admits  of  only  one 
pole   which  is  a  simple  pole.    The  physical  interpretation, 
in  the  domain  of  reality,  of  such  a  series  leads  us  to  con- 
sider the  potential  of  a  system  composed  of  an  infinitude  of 
isolated  points,  the  mass  concentrated  in  each  of  these  points 
being  finite  (which  leads  us  to  admit  that  the  density  in  each 
such  point  is  infinite,  if  the  point  is  considered  abstractly 
as  a  simple  geometrical  point  without  dimensions) .    We  sup- 
pose, of  course,  that  the  series  whose  terms  denote  the  values 
of  the  masses  is  convergent,  which  amounts  to  saying  that 
the  total  mass  is  finite,  although  concentrated  in  an  infinitude 
of  distinct  points-for  example,  in  all  the  points  whose  two 
coordinates  are  rational  numbers.  _ 

The  potential  with  which  we  are  now  concerned  is  in  the 
case  of  a  plane  what  we  call  a  logarithmic  potential ;  we  could 
reason  similarly  in  three-dimensional  space :  we  should  then 
have  the  Newtonian  potential  properly  so  called. 

The  hypothesis  that  the  attracting  masses  are  simple  ma- 
terial points  without  dimensions  is  difficult  to  accept  from 
the  physical  point  of  view;  one  is  thus  led  to  perform  the 
analytical  operation  which  consists  in  dispersing  this  mass 
into  a  small  circle  (or  a  small  sphere)  having  this  point  for 

C37i:i 


\ 


.i 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


center,  without  changing  the  potential  outside  of  this  circle 
(or  sphere)  ;  we  shall  call  this  circle  (or  sphere)  the 
'^sphere  of  action"  of  the  point  which  coincides  with  its 
center;  we  shall  choose  its  radius  to  be  proportional 
to  the  mass  concentrated  at  its  center,  so  that,  if  the 
series  formed  by  the  masses  converges  with  sufficient  rapid- 
ity, we  may  arrange  things  in  such  a  manner  that  the  radii  of 
the  spheres  of  action  also  form  a  very  rapidly  converging 
series,  and  yet  that  the  maximum  density  of  the  attracting 
m^ass  be  finite.  It  is  also  easy,  if  we  admit  that  v/e  can  dis- 
pose arbitrarily  of  the  distribution  of  masses  and  densities, 
to  arrange  things  in  such  a  way  that  the  distribution  in  each 
sphere  of  action,  as  well  as  its  derivatives,  is  reduced  to  zero 
over  the  whole  surface  of  the  sphere;  the  distribution  of  the 
density  is  thus  not  merely  finite,  but  continuous  throughout 
space. 

The  hypothesis  which  we  have  made  concerning  the  con- 
vergence of  the  series  the  terms  of  which  are  the  radii  of  the 
spheres  of  action,  implies  the  convergence  of  the  series  the 
terms  of  which  are  the  projections  of  these  spheres  on  any 
straight  line  whatever;  if,  therefore,  in  this  series,  we  sup- 
press a  certain  number  of  the  first  term,  the  rest  of  the  series 
can  be  made  less  than  any  number  fixed  in  advance.  From 
this  we  conclude  that  in  an  interval,  however  small  it  may  be, 
taken  on  the  straight  line  on  which  we  project  the  spheres, 
we  can  find  an  infinite  number  of  points  which  belong  at  the 
most  to  a  finite  number  of  such  projections— namely,  those 
belonging  to  the  spheres  S  which  correspond  to  the  first 
terms  of  the  series,  and  which  were  suppressed  in  the  series 
in  order  to  make  the  remainder  less  than  the  interval  con- 
sidered. If  we  consider  a  plane  perpendicular  to  the  straight 
line  and  passing  through  one  of  these  points  (this  point  being 
chosen,  as  is  possible,  distinct  from  the  projections  of  the 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

centers  of  the  spheres  S,  finite  in  num.ber,  concerning  which 
we  have  just  spoken) ,  this  plane  will  at  most  intersect  a  finite 
number  of  spheres  S,  without  going  through  their  centers, 
but  will  be  exterior  to  all  the  other  spheres  of  action.     It  is 
possible  to  modify  the  distribution  of  matter  within  the 
spheres  S  which  are  finite  in  number  and  intersected  by  the 
plane  in  such  a  manner  as  to  replace  these  spheres  by  smaller 
ones  which  do  not  intersect  the  plane,  this  operation  not 
modifying  the  potential  outside  of  the  spheres,  and  the  den- 
sity remaining  finite,  since  the  operation  relates  to  only  a 
limited  number  of  spheres.    To  sum  up.  It  Is  possible  to  find 
a  plane  perpendicular  to  any  straight  line  whatever,  cutting 
out  of  this  line  any  segment  whatever  given  in  advance,  and 
such  that  In  all  the  points  of  this  plane  the  density  shall  be 
zero.     Since  our  potential  function  is  defined  by  a  density 
everywhere  finite  and  continuous,  this  potential  satisfies  the 
equation  of  Polsson,  which  reduces  itself  to  the  equation  of 
Laplace  wherever  the  density  is  zero-that  is  to  say,  in  all 
the  points  of  the  planes  which  we  have  just  defined.    It  was 
not  idle  to   insist  upon  this  point,   for  these  planes  may 
traverse  regions  of  space  In  which  the  given  material  points 
are  everywhere  dense-as  are,  for  example,  all  the  points 
whose  coordinates  are  rational  numbers.     We  might  have 
feared  that  there  would  be  no  free  space  between  points  so 
closely  pressed  together,  so  to  speak;  we  have  just  seen  that 
this  fear  was  unjustified.    The  theorem  of  the  theory  of  en- 
sembles which  is  necessary  and  sufficient  for  demonstrating 
this  result  In  a  rigorous  manner  Is  the  following:  //  on  a 
segment  of  a  straight  line  we  have  an  infinite  number  of  par- 
tial segments  {in  this  particular  case,  the  projections  of  the 
spheres  of  action)  whose  total  length  is  less  than  the  length 
of  the  segment,  there  exist  on  that  segment  an  infinite  num- 
ber of  points  which  do  not  pertain  to  any  of  the  partial  seg- 

1:373] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

merits.  This  formulation  is  almost  self-evident,  and  besides, 
it  would  be  easy  to  demonstrate  it  rigorously. 

In  the  case  of  the  plane  we  shall  replace  the  spheres  by 
circles  and  the  plane  perpendicular  at  a  point  of  the  segment 
by  a  perpendicular  straight  line;  we  can  easily  prove  that, 
even  in  the  region  where  the  singular  points  are  everywhere 
dense,  there  are  points  at  which  an  infinite  number  of  such 
lines  intersect,  on  which  the  density  is  zero;  at  these  points 
the  logarithmic  potential  function  satisfies  Laplace's  equation 
in  two  variables.  If  we  study  in  a  similar  w^ay  the  function 
of  a  complex  variable  with  poles  dense  in  one  region,  we 
define  an  infinite  number  of  straight  lines  of  continuity,  inter- 
secting in  all  directions,  the  function  admitting  of  derivatives 
w^hich  are  continuous  on  these  lines,  and  the  derivative  hav- 
ing the  same  value  in  all  the  directions  in  each  of  the  points 
of  intersection.  To  express  this  fact  we  shall  use  the  word 
created  by  Cauchy  for  designating  functions  which  admit  of 
a  derivative  independent  of  the  argument  of  the  increment 
of  the  variable;  these  functions  may  be  called  monogenic, 
but  they  are  not  analytical,  if  we  reserve  for  the  word  "ana- 
lytical" the  very  definite  meaning  which  it  has  possessed 
since  the  labors  of  Weierstrass. 

Without  lingering  on  the  physical  analogies  suggested  by 
the  existence  of  planes  which  do  not  intersect  the  spheres  of 
action  of  the  attracting  masses,  I  should  like  to  insist  a  little 
upon  the  nature  of  the  mathematical  problems  arising  out  of 
the  existence  of  these  monogenic  but  not  analytical  functions. 
We  know  that  the  essential  property  of  analytical  functions 
is  that  they  are  determinate  in  the  whole  domain  of  their 
existence,  when  their  values  are  given  in  one  portion,  how- 
ever small  it  may  be,  of  that  domain.  Is  that  property  a  con- 
sequence of  analyticity— that  is  to  say,  of  the  existence  of  the 
Taylor  series  with  radius  of  convergence  differing  from  zero 

[374] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

^or  of  monogeneity-that  is  to  say,  of  the  existence  of  the 
unique  derivative?  This  question  was  meaningless  as  long 
as  it  was  possible  to  confound  analyticity  with  monogeneity; 
on  the  other  hand,  it  takes  a  very  clear  signification  as  soon 
as  we  have  succeeded  in  constructing  non-analytical  mono- 
genic functions. 

I  cannot  enter  to-day  into  the  detail  of  the  deductions 
which  have  led  to  the  solution  of  this  problem;^  here  is  the 
result :  it  is,  indeed,  monogeneity  which  is  the  essential  char- 
acter to  which  the  fundamental  property  of  analytical  func- 
tions is  due;  this  fundamental  property  subsists  for  the  non- 
analytical  monogenic  functions  as  soon  as  we  specify  clearly 
the  nature  of  the  domains  In  which  these  functions  are  con- 
sidered. I  have  proposed  to  call  the  domains  satisfying  these 
distinct  conditions   "domains   of  Cauchy."     A  domain  of 
Cauchy  Is  obtained  by  cutting  off  from  a  continuous  domain 
domains  of  exclusion  analogous  to  the  spheres  of  action  just 
mentioned,  domains  which  may  be  Infinite  In  number,  but 
whose  sum  can  be  supposed  to  be  less  than  any  given  number 
(just  as  the  spheres  or  circles  of  exclusion  just  considered, 
whose  radii  once  chosen  we  can  multiply  by  any  number  less 
than  unity,  while  we  are  free  to  Increase  the  upper  limit  of 
the  density  at  the  same  time  as  we  decrease  the  radii  of  exclu- 
sion). 

The  series  formed  by  these  excluded  domains  should,  evi- 
dently, be  supposed  to  be  convergent;  moreover,  we  ought  to 
suppose  that  Its  convergence  Is  more  rapid  than  that  of  a 
determinate  series  which  it  is  not  necessary  to  write  here. 
Under  these  conditions,  which  refer  only  to  the  domain  and 
not  to  the  function,  every  function  which  in  Cauchy's  domain 

1  See  Emile  Borel,  ''Definition  et  domaine  d'existence  des  fonctions  mono- 
eenes  uniformes"   {   ournal  of  the  International  Congress  of  Mathematicians 
Cambridge,    England,    1912)  ;    ''Les    fonctions    monogenes    non-analytiques 
{Bulletin  de  la  Societe  Mathematique  de  Trance,  1912). 

[375] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

satisfies  the  fundamental  equation  of  monogeneity  possesses 
the  essential  property  of  the  analytical  function;  we  can  cal- 
culate it  throughout  its  domain  of  existence  by  the  knowledge 
of  its  derivatives  at  one  point  (the  existence  of  the  first 
derivative  involves  the  existence  of  all  the  derivatives,  at 
least  in  a  certain  domain  which  forms  part  of  the  Cauchy 
domain),  and  this  mode  of  calculation  implies  the  conse- 
quence that,  if  the  monogenic  function  be  zero  on  an  arc 
however  small,  it  is  zero  in  every  point  of  the  domain  of 
Cauchy;  two  functions,  therefore,  cannot  coincide  on  an  arc 
without  coinciding  throughout  their  domain  of  existence,  in 
the  generalized  sense. 

I  cannot  develop  the  consequences  of  these  results  from 
the  point  of  view  of  the  theory  of  functions;  but  I  should 
like,  in  closing,  to  submit  to  you  some  reflections  which  they 
suggest  concerning  the  relations  between  mathematical  and 
physical  continuity. 

VIII 

Most  of  the  equations  Into  which  we  translate  the  physical 
phenomena  have  certain  properties  of  continuity;  the  solu- 
tions vary  in  a  continuous  manner,  at  least  during  a  certain 
interval,  greater  or  less  in  length,  when  the  given  quantities 
vary  in  a  continuous  manner.  Besides,  this  property  Is  not 
absolutely  general,  and  It  might  happen  that  the  theories  of 
the  quanta  of  emission  or  absorption  may  lead  us  to  give 
more  importance  than  heretofore  to  exceptional  cases;  but 
to-day  I  do  not  wish  to  enter  upon  this  discussion;  I  limit 
myself  to  the  general  property,  verified  In  a  large  number  of 
cases. 

When  we  seek  to  interpret  this  property  In  the  theory  of 
the  potential  and  of  the  monogenic  functions,  we  should  ex- 
pect. If  for  simplification  we  confine  ourselves  to  the  real 
functions  of  a  single  variable,  to  find  a  sort  of  continuous 

[376;] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

passage  between  such  of  these  functions  as  are  analytical  in 
the  Welerstrasslan  sense  and  those  which  are  entirely  dis- 
continuous. Now,  this  Is  precisely  what  does  not  occur  un- 
less we  consider  non-analytical  monogenic  functions;  as  soon 
as  a  function  ceases  to  be  analytical  it  no  longer  possesses 
any  of  the  essential  properties  of  analytical  functions:  the 
discontinuity  Is  sudden.  The  new  monogenic  functions  per- 
mit one  to  define  functions  of  real  variables  which  might  be 
called  quasi-analytical  and  which  constitute  in  some  way  a 
zone  of  transition  between  the  classical  analytical  functions 
and  the  functions  which  are  not  determined  by  the  know- 
ledge of  their  derivatives  in  a  point.  This  transitional  zone 
deserves  to  be  studied:  it  is  oftentimes  the  study  of  hybrid 
forms  which  best  teaches  us  about  certain  properties  of 
clearly  defined  species. 

We  see  that  the  points  of  contact  between  molecular  phys- 
ics and  mathematics  are  numerous:  I  have  only  been  able  to 
point  out.  In  a  rapid  manner,  the  most  important  among 
them.  I  am  not  competent  to  ask  whether  the  physicists  will 
be  able  to  derive  Immediate  advantage  from  these  analogies; 
but  I  am  convinced  that  mathematicians  can  only  gain  by  in- 
vestigating them  more  thoroughly.  Mathematical  analysis 
has  ever  been  rejuvenated  by  contact  with  nature;  It  is  only 
because  of  this  permanent  contact  that  it  has  been  able  to 
escape  the  danger  of  becoming  a  pure  symbolism,  revolving 
in  a  circle  about  Itself;  thanks  to  molecular  physics,  the 
speculations  on  discontinuity  will  assume  their  full  sig- 
nificance, and  will  develop  in  a  truly  fruitful  manner.  And 
while  it  is  impossible  to  foresee  the  exact  applications  of 
these  researches,  it  is  not  unlikely  that  the  mental  habits  they 
foster  will  not  prove  useless  to  those  who  desire  to  under- 
take the  task,  that  cannot  long  be  deferred,  of  creating  an 
analysis  adapted  to  theoretical  researches  in  the  physics  of 
discontinuity. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


Second  Lecture 


AGGREGATES  OF  ZERO  MEASURE i 


WE  say  that  a  linear  aggregate  E  is  of  measure  zero  if, 
when  we  are  given  a  number  e  arbitrarily  small,  we 
can  inclose  all  the  points  of  E  within  intervals  whose  sum  is 
less  than  e.  For  an  aggregate  of  two  dimensions  we  have  a 
similar  definition,  replacing  the  intervals  by  the  rectangles. 
Moreover,  we  see  that  we  may  speak  of  squares  instead  of 
rectangles,  because  if  we  are  given  a  rectangle  we  can  find 
a  finite  number  of  squares  of  which  the  total  area  differs 
as  little  as  we  please  from  the  area  of  the  rectangle,  and 
such  that  every  point  within  the  rectangle  is  also  within  one 
of  these  squares.  We  could  also  replace  squares  by  circles 
without  altering  the  generality  of  the  definition. 

Aggregates  of  measure  zero  play  a  very  important  part  in 
the  theory  of  functions  of  a  real  and  of  a  complex  variable. 
It  is  therefore  useful  to  be  able  to  compare  the  different 
aggregates  of  measure  zero  among  themselves.  This  com- 
parison is  aided  by  the  concept  of  regular  aggregates.  In 
the  first  place,  then,  we  shall  define  regular  aggregates  and 
the  fundamental  points  of  these  aggregates,  and  we  shall 
show  that  every  regular  aggregate  is  equivalent  to  another 
regular  aggregate  of  which  the  fundamental  points  are 
chosen  in  a  special  manner,  for  example,  as  the  points  with 
rational  coordinates.  Finally,  we  shall  consider  the  classifi- 
cation of  aggregates  of  measure  zero,  with  given  funda- 
mental points.  This  classification  will  be  based  on  the 
asymptotic  decrease  of  the  intervals  (or  squares)  of  exclusion. 

^  Translated  from  the  French  by  Professor  Griffith  Conrad  Evans,  of  the  Rice 
Institute. 

[378] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


An  aggregate  of  measure  zero  is  said  to  be  regular  when 
It  can  be  defined  in  the  following  manner : 

Let  ^1,  ^25  •••j  ^n)  "'be  a  denumerahle  infinity  of  points^ 
said  to  he  fundamental  points.  To  each  integral  number  h  let 
us  make  correspond  an  infinity  of  squares  Cf\  C'i\  •••,  C^n\  •••, 
of  which  the  areas  form  a  convergent  series^  such  that  the 
square  C^^  incloses  in  its  interior  C^'^^^  and  approaches  A^ 
when  h  increases  indefinitely.  Let  Ef^  be  the  aggregate  of 
points  inside  of  the  squares  Cn\n=  i,  2,  •••)•  The  aggregate 
of  points  contained  in  all  the  Ef,  is  a  regular  aggregate  (which 
is  evidently  of  zero  measure). 

Every  aggregate  of  zero  measure  can  be  considered  as 
part  of  a  regular  aggregate.  In  other  words,  if  J  is  any 
aggregate  of  measure  zero,  we  can  define  a  regular  aggregate 
E  of  zero  measure,  such  that  every  point  of  A  belongs  to  E. 
To  prove  this  proposition  let  us  imagine  a  sequence  of  num- 
bers €1,  €2,  •••,  €„,  decreasing  and  tending  to  zero,  the  series 
2e„  being  supposed  convergent.  Since  the  aggregate  J  is 
of  measure  zero,  we  can  define  an  aggregate  J^^^  of  squares 
(with  sides  parallel  to  the  axes)  the  sum  of  whose  area  is  less 
than  e^,  and  such  that  every  point  of  J  is  inside  one  of 
these  squares  J^^\  We  define  first  the  squares  J^^\  then  the 
squares  A^^^ ;  if  there  are  portions  of  these  squares  A^^^  which 
are  outside  all  the  squares  J^^\  we  can  suppress  them  as 
useless.  In  order  to  proceed  in  a  perfectly  definite  manner, 
we  consider  the  first  of  the  squares  J^^\  say  Ji\  and  oper- 
ate successively  on  the  portions  of  the  successive  squares 
J^^^  which  are  inside  J[^^ ;  we  continue  in  the  same  way 
with  J2\  being  careful  each  time  to  omit  the  portions 
already  considered,  etc.  These  operations  lead  us  to  con- 
sider rectangles,  each  of  which  may  be  replaced  by  an 
enumerable  infinity  of  squares  (in  particular  cases  a  finite 
number).  It  is  suflficient,  in  order  to  form  the  squares  ac- 
cording   to    a    definite   law,   to   construct    successively  the 

[379] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

greatest  possible  square  inside  the  rectangle,  taking  as  the 
vertex  nearest  the  origin  of  coordinates  that  vertex  of  the 
rectangle  which  is  nearest  the  origin  of  coordinates.  If 
among  the  squares  so  defined  there  are  some  which  contain 
no  point  of  the  aggregate  A  we  suppress  them.  We  may 
assume  the  squares  to  be  arranged  in  the  order  of  de- 
creasing size  (if  two  of  them  happen  to  be  equal  in  size  we 
shall  arrange  them  according  to  the  relative  values  of  the 
abscissas  of  their  centers ;  and  if  these  abscissas  are  equal, 
according  to  the  value  of  their  ordinates).  In  the  same  way 
we  arrange  the  squares  A^"^^  (after  the  required  transforma- 
tions), and  so  on. 

We  define  an  aggregate  B  of  squares  which  will  con- 
sist of  all  the  squares  A^^\  and  besides  a  certain  number  of 
the  squares  A^'^\  A^^\  •••.  In  the  same  way  B^^^  will  include  all 
the  squares  A^^^  and,  besides,  a  certain  number  of  the  squares 
A^^\  •••.  It  is  clear  that  the  sum  of  the  squares  B^^^  is  less 
than  Ef^  +  E^+i  +  •••  is  finite  no  matter  what  h  may  be  and  ap- 
proaches zero  when  h  increases  indefinitely.  Since  all  the 
squares  A''^^  will  be  part  of  the  B^^\  every  point  of  A  is  in- 
side of  one  of  the  squares  B'^^K  In  order  that  the  aggregate 
E  defined  by  the  B^^^  may  be  regular  we  must  be  able  to 
number  the  B^''\  B^^\  Bf,  •••,  Bl,^\  .-,  in  such  a  way  that 
^r'^  shall  be  less  than  B'J:\ 

We  achieve  this  result  in  the  following  manner.  Consider 
first  the  squares  A^^\  if  there  are  any,  whose  area  is  greater 
than  €2  (we  know  that  there  are  none  whose  area  is  greater 
than  €1,  since  the  sum  of  all  the  A^^^  is  less  than  €1).  We 
designate  these  squares  as  Bi\  B2\  •••,  Bn\\  Let  us  con- 
sider next  those  remaining  squares  A^^^  of  which  the  area  is 
greater  than  €3,  and  let  us  denote  them  by  ^;^+i,  ^a,+2>  "•)  Bp\\ 
Let  us  take  now  the  squares  A^^^  whose  area  is  greater  than 
€3 ;  they  are  arranged  in  a  definite  order,  as  we  have  said. 
If  the  first  of  them.is  inside  one  of  the  A^^^  already  numbered, 

D8on 


I 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

for  example  inside  Bll\  we  shall  denote  it  by  5f  \  otherwise 
we  shall  denote  it  at  the  same  time  by  B^^^^^  and  by  B^pJ^^,  In 
the  same  way,  if  the  second  of  the  A^^^  that  we  take  is  inside 
one  of  the  A^^^  already  numbered,  diiferent  from  Bl,^\  say  B[^\ 
we  shall  denote  it  by  B^,^\  If  it  is  not  inside  any  of  the  A''^^ 
(it  cannot  be  inside  an  A^^^  without  a  number,  since  its  area 
is  greater  than  €3  and  the  A''^^  without  numbers  have  areas 
less  than  €2),  or  if  it  is  inside  the  particular  B^^^  which  has 
already  been  utilized,  we  shall  denote  it  at  the  same  time  by 
BpX2  and  by  BpJ+2'  In  this  way  we  manage  to  define  a  cer- 
tain number  of  new  squares  B^^^  which  we  will  call  ^^ii, 
BpJ^.2,  •••,  Bi^^\  and  a  certain  number  of  squares  B^^^  which  in- 
clude all  the  A^^^  of  area  greater  than  €3. 

Let  us  consider  now  the  squares  A^^^  of  area  greater  than 
€4,  and  let  us  denote  them  by  5n,ii,  Bl^J^.2,  •••,  BpJ  ;  we  can 
proceed  in  the  same  way  as  before  for  the  A^^^  whose  areas 
are  greater  than  €4,  and  we  can  then  pass  on  to  the  A^^^  whose 
areas  are  greater  than  e  .  Those  among  them  which  are  in- 
side of  the  B^^^  already  numbered  will  have  the  same  num- 
bers (each  number  being  given  of  course  but  one  time).  The 
others  will  be  denoted  at  the  same  time  by  B^s\  B^i\  Bf\ 
We  can  continue  indefinitely  in  the  same  way,  the  e^  ap- 
proaching zero  when  k  increases  indefinitely  and  each  opera- 
tion involving  only  a  finite  number  of  squares.  In  this  way 
every  square  belonging  to  A^^^  will  appear  in  B^^^  in  a  deter- 
minate position.  Moreover,  it  is  obvious  that  Bf^  ap- 
proaches zero  no  matter  what  q  may  be  when  h  increases 
indefinitely.  It  is  impossible  that  certain  series  B^q\  Bf\ 
•••,  B^p  should  terminate,  because  that  would  mean  that  no 
one  of  the  squares  A^^'^^^  is  inside  B'^J^ ;  that  is  to  say,  that  B^^ 
would  inclose  no  point  of  the  aggregate  A,  which  is  contrary 
to  our  hypothesis.  The  aggregates  of  squares  B^^^  define, 
then,  a  regular  aggregate  which  includes  all  the  points  of  A, 
and  our  theorem  is  proved. 

1:380 


(1) 

(1) 
a 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

We  notice  that  in  the  definition  of  the  regular  aggregate 
E  there  are  certain  series  ^i'\  5f\  •-,  of  which  a  certain 
number  of  the  first  terms  denote  squares  that  coincide  among 
themselves.  That,  in  fact,  is  no  difficulty.  We  can,  how- 
ever, avoid  this  circumstance  by  slightly  modifying  the  defi- 
nitions of  the  first  Bg  of  such  a  series  ;  if,  for  instance,  B 
Bf\  5f  coincide,  we  can  replace  Bf'  by  (i  +e)Bf\  and  5, 
by  (i  4-Ci)(i  -\-€)B^^^^  (we  designate  by  aC  a  square  similarly 
placed  to  C,  with  the  ratio  a  of  similarity).  These  opera- 
tions multiply  the  total  extent  of  the  squares  B^^^  by  a  factor 
less  than  the  convergent  infinite  product  n(i  +ej,). 

We  notice  that  the  regular  aggregate  E  which  we  have 
defined  is  not  necessarily  the  most  simple  of  the  regular 
aggregates  of  measure  zero  which  include  the  J,  but  it  is 
not  important  that  our  demonstration  should  give  us  the 
most  simple.  The  essential  thing  is  to  show  that  there 
exists  one;  it  is  then  possible  to  consider  without  contradic- 
tion the  collection  of  all  the  regular  aggregates  of  measure 
zero  which  contain  A,  and  we  can  choose  from  this  collection 
if  not  the  simplest  (which  may  not  exist,  in  the  same  way 
that  the  smallest  number  greater  than  V2  does  not  exist), 
at  least  an  aggregate  E  whose  simplicity  is  as  close  as  we 
please  to  the  greatest  possible. 

From  now  on  we  shall  consider  especially  the  regular 
aggregates.  Such  an  aggregate  is  defined  by  the  funda- 
mental points  An,  which  are  limits  of  the  B^^^  when  h  in- 
creases indefinitely,  and  by  the  magnitudes  of  the  excluding 
squares  B^''^  corresponding  to  An^  The  derived  aggregate 
of  the  fundamental  points  is  a  closed  set  A\  In  the  general 
case  this  set  is  composed  of  a  perfect  aggregate  and  a  reduc- 
ible aggregate.     The  excluding  intervals  which  correspond 


1  It  might  seem  desirable  to  consider  also  the  relative  positions  of  the  Jn  in  these 
squares ;    but  by  modifying  slightly  the  definitions  we  can  so  arrange  that  every 

Bi^^  has  Jn  for  its  center. 


[382] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

to  the  points  of  the  reducible  aggregate  have  only  in  common 
the  points  of  this  reducible  aggregate  itself.     Their  study 
therefore  gives  us  nothing  new.     The  really  interesting  part 
of  a   regular  aggregate  of  zero  measure  is  that  which  is 
attached  to  those  points  of  A'  which  form  a  perfect  aggre- 
gate.    We  shall  have  to  distinguish  cases  according  to  the 
nature  of  this  perfect  aggregate.     We  shall  limit  ourselves, 
however,  to  the  consideration  of  the  case  where  the  aggregate 
A'  contains  all  the  points  of  a  certain  area  of  simple  form. 
The  points  An  will  then  be  dense  within  this  area.^     All  the 
cases  where  the  area  is  of  a  single  piece  and  simply  connected 
may  be  reduced  by  conformal  representation  to  the  case 
of  the  area  bounded  by  a  circle.     We  shall  show  that  if  we 
have  two  different  systems  of  points  An  and  B„,  dense  within 
the  interior  of  equal  circles  and  also  dense  on  their  circum- 
ferences, ^  we  can  establish  between  these  points  a  reciprocal 
continuous  one-to-one  correspondence  in  such  a  way  that  the 
ratio  between  the  distance  of  any  two  points  Aj,,  A^  and  the 
distance  of  the  corresponding  points  5^,  5,  will  be  included 
between  two  limits  as  close  to  unity  as  we  please.     It  will 
follow  from  this  theorem  that  we  shall  be  able  without  loss 
of  generality  to  suppose  that  the  fundamental  points  of  an 
aggregate  of  zero   measure,   when   these   points   are   dense 
within  a  certain  region,  coincide  with  a  given  dense  aggregate 
in  that  region  —  for  instance,  with  the  points  of  rational 
coordinates. 

1  We  shall  thus  leave  aside  those  aggregates  of  zero  measure  which  we  obtain  by 
assuming  that  ^  is  a  perfect  linear  aggregate  which  without  being  Imear  yetcontains 
no  area.  For  example,  we  could  exclude  certain  fixed  areas  around  the  pomts  with 
rational  coordinates  and  take  for  the  An  the  points  with  algebraic  coordinates 
which  did  not  belong  to  the  excluded  areas.  We  could  also  build  up  in  some  arrange- 
ment several  similar  constructions,  or  even  a  denumerable  infinity  of  such  construc- 
tions superposed,  and  thus  obtain  regions  which  would  be  quite  complicated  from 
the  point  of  view  of  Analysis  Situs.  u  a 

2  The  case  when  neither  aggregate  has  points  on  the  circumference  can  be  treated 

in  the  same  way. 


[383] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


II 

The  theorem  which  we  have  in  view  can  be  expressed  as 
follows  :  Given  two  equal  circles  C  and  C\  and  two  enumerable 
aggregates  A  and  B,  of  which  the  first  is  dense  in  C  and  on  the 
circumference  C,  and  the  second  is  dense  in  C  and  on  the  cir- 
cumference C,  and  given  an  arbitrarily  small  number  €,  then 
we  can  number  the  points  of  A  and  B  in  such  a  way  that  to  a 
point  on  the  contour  we  make  correspond  a  point  on  the  contour, 
and  that  we  have,  whatever  p  and  q  may  be, 

We  shall  say  that  in  this  case  the  two  aggregates  are  similar 

by  €. 

In  order  to  prove  this  theorem  we  shall  assume  that  the 
points  of  the  two  aggregates  are  arranged  provisionally  in  a 
determinate  order,  and  we  shall  consider  successively  the 
first  point  of  A,  then  the  first  point  of  B,  then  the  second 
point  of  A,  then  the  second  point  of  B,  and  so  on.  Thus  we 
shall  not  miss  any  point  belonging  to  either  of  the  two 
aggregates.  To  each  new  point  that  we  consider  in  one 
aggregate,  we  shall  make  correspond  a  determinate  point 
in  the  other;  and  when  the  turn  of  this  new  point  comes 
we  shall  omit  it. 

We  shall  suppose  that  the  centers  of  the  circles  C  and  C 
do  not  belong  to  the  aggregates  A  and  B  (nothing  would  be 
changed  if  both  of  them  should  belong,  for  we  could  make 
them  correspond  ;  and  if  one  of  them  belonged,  but  the  other 
not,  we  could  make  a  conformal  transformation,  differing 
little  from  the  identical  transformation,  which  would  trans- 
form the  second  circle  into  an  equal  circle  whose  center 
could  then  be  made  to  correspond  to  the  center  of  the  first 

n384: 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

circle).  In  this  way  we  can  investigate  the  two  circles  by 
considering  them  superposed  and  yet  distinct.  It  is  possible 
now  to  choose  two  rectangular  axes  Ox  and  Oy  in  such  a  way 
that  the  diameters  parallel  to  the  axes  contain  no  points  of 
A  or  B,  and  every  line  parallel  to  either  of  the  axes  contains 
at  most  one  point  of  A  and  one  point  of  B  (because  the  to- 
tality of  directions  of  lines  which  connect  the  center  with 
points  of  A  or  with  points  of  B,  or  connect  the  points  of  A 
among  themselves,  or  the  points  of  B  among  themselves, 
or  which  are  perpendicular  to  these  directions,  form  an 
enumerable  aggregate).  Let  us  assume  an  infinite  series 
of  positive  numbers  «i,  «2,  "•,  e„,  •••  such  that 

l_e<n(i-e„)    ,    n(i+«„)<i+*. 

The  circle  C  is  divided  by  the  diameters  parallel  to  the 
axes  in  four  equal  regions  which  provisionally  we  shall  call 
I,  2,  3,  4 ;  and  the  circle  C  is  divided  in  homologous  regions 
which  we  shall  designate  in  the  same  manner. 

Consider  first  A,,  which  may  be,  for  instance,  in  the  region 
3 :  since  it  cannot  be  on  the  diameters,  it  must  be  inside 
this  region,  unless  it  be  on  the  circumference  (a  case  which 
we  are  for  the  moment  excluding).  Let  us  now  designate 
by  A[  the  point  of  the  region  3  of  C  which  coincides  with  A, 
when  C  is  moved  upon  C  by  a  translation.  If  A'^  happens 
to  belong  to  B,  which  is  not  the  general  case,  we  shall  call 
it  Bx.  Otherwise  we  shall  define  a  square  with  center  at  Ai, 
such  that  the  ratio  of  the  greatest  to  the  least  of  the  shortest 
possible  distances  of  all  the  points  in  the  square  to  points 
on  the  boundary  of  the  region  3  shall  be  less  than  i  +  e.. 
This  shortest  distance  is  parallel  to  the  axes  for  the  recti- 
linear portions  of  the  boundary  and  coincides  with  the  radius 
for  the  curvilinear  portion,  and,  from  our  hypothesis  in  regard 
to  ^  1,  is  not  zero.  So  the  construction  of  the  square  is  always 
possible.    We  now  choose  5,  arbitrarily  from  the  points  of 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

B  inside  this  square  (if  we  wish  to  avoid  having  to  make  an 
arbitrary  choice  from  among  a  denumerable  infinity  of 
points,  we  can  take  the  point  of  B  whose  number  is  smallest 
in  the  provisional  classification).  Having  chosen  this 
point  Bi  we  construct  parallels  to  the  axes  passing  through 
Ai  and  5i,  each  set  of  which,  with  the  diameters  already 
drawn,  will  divide  its  circle  into  regions  (nine  in  each)  which 
will  correspond  two  by  two.  Some  of  these  regions  will  be 
rectangles  (in  this  case  only  one),  while  the  others  will  be 
quadrilaterals  or  triangles  of  which  certain  sides  are  parallels 
to  the  axes  and  one  side  is  an  arc  of  the  circle.  If  we  agree 
to  consider  as  the  dimensions  of  such  regions  the  dimensions 
of  the  rectilinear  sides,  it  follows  from  the  construction  that 
the  ratio  between  homologous  dimensions  of  two  correspond- 
ing regions  is  included  between  i  +  e  and  i  —  e.^  In  the 
case  which  we  have  momentarily  excepted,  where  A\  is  on 
the  circumference,  we  can  take  5i,  also  on  the  circumference, 
in  such  a  way  that  the  same  condition  shall  be  verified  with 
respect  to  the  regions,  a  construction  which  is  always  pos- 
sible. 

Let  us  turn  now  to  the  second  point  ^2,  taken  from  the 
second  aggregate.  We  make  correspond  to  it  a  point  A2 
situated  in  the  homologous  region,  chosen  in  such  a  way 
that  the  new  regions  obtained  by  drawing  parallels  to  the 
axes  through  A2  and  B2  have  homologous  sides  whose  dimen- 
sions are  included  between  (i  +  €i)(i  +  €2)  and  (i  —  ei) 
(i  —  €2).  This  condition  necessitates  assigning  to  A2  a 
certain  area  inside  this  region,  and  A2  is  chosen  inside  this 
region  either  arbitrarily,  or  according  to  some  definite  law, 
as  has  been  explained  for  Bi,  care  being  taken  to  have  A2 
on  the  circumference  C,  if  B2  is  on  the  circumference  C 


1  We  have,  in  fact,  — -— -  >  i  -  ci,  and,  according  to  our  construction,  the  ratios 
of  homologous  sides  are  included  between  i  +  ci  and  — ^ — • 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

We  continue  in  the  same  way,  taking  alternately  a  point  in 
A  and  a  point  in  B,  making  it  correspond  to  some  point  in 
the  other  aggregate.  After  n  operations  we  shall  have  at 
most  (n  +  2)2  regions,  and  the  ratio  of  two  homologous 
dimensions  of  two  regions  which  correspond  will  always  be 

included  between 

(l  -  ei)(l  -  ^2)  •■•  (i  -  e-.) 

and  ^  ^  ,         ^      ,       \ 

(I  +  ei)(l  +  «2)  ••■  (l  +  «») 

and  therefore  between  i  -  «  and  I  +  e.  If  we  continue  in 
this  way  indefinitely,  every  point  of  A  and  every  point  of 
B  will  have  a  number,  after  a  finite  number  of  operations,  and 
this  number  will  be  at  most  double  the  number  of  the  same 
point  in  the  provisional  classification. 

This  final  classification  satisfies  completely  the  conditions 
of  our  theorem.  For,  if  we  consider  any  two  points  A^,  A„ 
with  their  corresponding  points  B„  5„  the  difference  of  the 
abscissa  x,  and  x,  of  J,  and  A„  when  the  regional  division 
has  progressed  far  enough  (that  is,  after  a  number  of  opera- 
tions not  greater  than  the  larger  of  the  two  members  p,  q), 
will  be  equal  to  the  sum  of  the  rectiHnear  sides  of  certain 
regions,  and  the  abscissas  x'„  x\  of  B,  and  B,  will  be  equal  to 
the  sum  of  rectilinear  sides  of  the  corresponding  regions. 
We  shall  have  then 


(I) 

and  similarly 

(2) 


Xj,  Xq 


from  which  follows  immediately 


But  this  last  relation  is  the  statement  of  our  theorem. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

We  might  show  in  the  same  way  the  analogous  theorem 
about  the  angles  a  and  /?  which  the  lines  A^A^  and  Bj,B^ 
make  with  the  axis  Ox.     In  fact,  we  have 


tan  a:  = 


tan/3= 


so  that  from  equations  (i)  and  (2)  we  deduce  immediately 

I— e      tan  a      l+e 
i+e      tan/3      i— € 

If  we  take  the  angles  a  and  /3  positive,  since  they  are  al- 
most of  the  same  value,  cot /3 -f  tan  a  is  greater  than  or  at 
least  equal  to  2,  and  therefore,  neglecting  e^,  we  shall  have 


a-0\  <  I  tan(a-/3)  |  = 


tan  a 

tan  /3 


tan/3 


■ftana 


< 


tana 
tan/3 


—  I 


<  €. 


The  properties  of  the  correspondence  which  we  have 
shown  to  exist  between  two  enumerable  aggregates  A  and  J5, 
which  are  dense  in  equal  circles  C  and  C\  are  worth  studying 
more  completely.  Here  follow  some  remarks  that  might 
be  useful  in  such  a  study.  In  the  first  place  we  observe 
that  if  any  partial  arrangement  of  points  An,  An,  -•' 
approach  a  limiting  point  P,  there  corresponds  to  it  a  partial 
series  of  points  5„^,  Bn^,  •••  which  approaches  a  limit  P\ 
The  correspondence  between  P  and  P'  is  well  defined,  — 
that  is,  is  independent  of  the  partial  series  that  may  be 
chosen.  We  have  in  this  way  a  one-to-one  correspondence 
between  the  points  of  C  and  the  points  of  C, 

Let  us  agree  to  call  the  parallels  to  the  axes,  drawn  through 
the  points  of  the  aggregate,  lines  of  discontinuity.  To  any 
point  M  not  on  a  line  of  discontinuity  corresponds  an  homol- 
ogous point  M\  and  the  transformation  of  the  region  in  the 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

neighborhood  of  M  into  the  region  in  the  neighborhood  of 
M'  may  be  written  in  the  form 

a;'   =  (A  +  v)x 

y  =  {h-^  V)y, 

where  x,  y  are  the  coordinates  of  M,  x\  y'  are  the  coordinates 
of  M',  h,  k  are  constants  of  value  between  i  -  e  and  i  +  e, 
and  rj  and  rj'  are  functions  of  x  and  y  which  approach  zero 
when  x^  +  y^  approaches  zero.     The  constants  h  and  k  are 
the  two  ratios  of  similitude  (parallel  to  the  two  axes)  of  the 
neighborhoods  of  M'  and  M.     If  the  points  M'  and  M  lie 
on  a  line  of  discontinuity,  the  ratio  of  similitude  in  the 
direction  perpendicular  to  this  line  has  not  the  same  value 
on  both  sides  of  the  line.     At  a  point  M  which  is  the  inter- 
section of  two  lines  of  discontinuity,  there  are  four  values  for 
each  ratio  of  similitude,  corresponding  respectively  to  the 
positive   and   negative  variations   of  the   two   coordinates. 
The  ratio  of  similitude  h  is  thus  defined  throughout  C.     It  is 
discontinuous  on  the  lines  of  discontinuity,  but  continuous 

at  other  points. 

If  we  know  nothing  about  the  provisional  numbering  of 
the  aggregates  A  and  B,  we  can  merely  say  this  about  the 
relation  between  the  provisional  numbering  and  the  final 
numbering :  that  the  final  number  n  is  at  most  twice  the 
provisional  number  p;  for  every  point  numbered  provi- 
sionally A p  or  Bp  is  chosen  after  at  most  2p  operations. 
We  cannot,  however,  give  an  upper  limit  to  ^  as  a  function 

of  n. 

It  will  be  possible  to  determine  such  a  limit,  provided 
that  we  take  care  to  choose  the  system  of  provisional  num- 
bering from  among  those  that  are  sensibly  homogeneous. 
Let  us  make  our  meaning  clear.  By  definition,  in  order  to 
arrange  a  very  large  number  p  of  points  in  a  homogeneous 
manner  in  a  circle  C,  we  shall  construct  a  square  grating 

[389: 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

such  that  p  of  its  vertices  are  inside  C;  if  a^  is  the  length 
of  a  segment  of  the  grating,  we  shall  put  one  point  in  each 
square  of  side  0;^,  and  l^  in  each  square  of  /a^,  exactly  if  /  is 
an  integral  number,  approximately  if  /  is  not.  Let  us  write 
lap  =  \  and  take  X  as  fixed  and  p  variable.  Then  for  every 
value  of  p  we  can  calculate  the  approximate  number  of 
points  inside  the  square  of  side  X,  a  number  which  may  be 
given  asymptotically  as  p\^/Tr^,  r  being  the  radius  of  the 
circle  C.  We  shall  say  that  the  arrangement  of  points  of 
the  enumerable  aggregate  Ji,  J2,  •••,  ^p,  •••  is  asymptotically 
homogeneous  if,  for  any  square  of  side  X,  the  number  X^  of 
points  of  index  less  than  p  inside  this  square  approaches 
this  same  symptotic  value  p\~/7rr^  when  p  increases  indefi- 
nitely; i.e.,  if  the  ratio  irXpr^/pX^  between  the  numbers  X^ 
and  the  symptotic  value  pX'^/wr'^  approaches  i  as  ^  increases 
indefinitely.  We  shall  say  that  the  arrangement  is  sensibly 
homogeneous  if  this  ratio  becomes  and  remains  limited  by 
two  constants  a  and  /5(q:  <  I  </5)  independent  of  p  and  of 
the  position  of  the  square  of  side  X. 

In  the  preceding  definition  of  homogeneous  arrangement, 
nothing  was  said  about  the  points  that  happened  to  be 
situated  on  the  boundary.  If  the  boundary  is  a  square  of 
side  <2,  the  maximum  number  of  points  situated  on  this 
boundary  for  a  grating  of  measure  a/n  is  \n,  the  total  num- 
ber of  points  being  n-.  Generally  speaking,  the  number  of 
points  on  the  boundary  will  be  said  to  be  normal  if  it  is  of  the 
order  of  magnitude  of  the  square  root  of  the  total  number  of 
points.  We  must  observe  that  this  notion  of  normal  depends 
on  the  assumption  that  there  are  points  on  the  contour.  If 
the  points  were  arranged  arbitrarily,  in  the  general  case  there 
would  be  no  point  on  the  boundary,  and  this  is  indeed  the 
simpler  hypothesis.  But  if  there  are  points  on  the  contour, 
the  case  is  probably  that  there  is  some  sort  of  a  relation 
between  the  way  the  contour  is  chosen  and  the  way  the 

[390] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

points  are  given.  Hence  it  is  natural  to  suppose  that  the 
probability  that  a  point  falls  on  an  arc  of  the  boundary  of 
unit  length  is  some  finite  proportion  of  the  probability 
that  a  point  falls  in  unit  area.  This  hypothesis  is  verified, 
for  instance,  if  the  boundary  is  a  circle  and  if  the  points  of  the 
aggregate  are  those  with  rational  coordinates.  Other  such 
hypotheses   might  be  conceived,   related  to  the  theory  of 

numbers. 

We  must  then,  in  the  case  where  there  are  points  on  the 
boundary,  add  to  the  hypothesis  that  the  arrangement  is 
sensibly  homogeneous  inside,  the  hypothesis  that  it  is  sensibly 
homogeneous  on  the  boundary. 

In  many  questions,  the  preceding  definition  of  sensibly 
homogeneous  arrangements  is  inadequate;  it  is  necessary 
to  add  a  condition  which  may  be  called  intrinsic  homogeneity, 
because  it  introduces  the  relative  positions  of  the  points 
of  the  aggregate.  If  we  consider  the  vertices  of  a  grating, 
which  we  take  as  the  type  of  homogeneity  (or,  say,  a  net  of 
equilateral  triangles),  we  see  that  the  shortest  distance 
between  two  vertices  is  proportional  to  the  inverse  square 
root  of  the  total  number  of  points.  We  say  that  a  two- 
dimensional  aggregate  is  Intrinsically  homogeneous  if  the 
shortest  distance  between  any  two  of  its  points_of  number 
less  than  p  is  of  the  order  of  magnitude  i/V^^.^  Homo- 
geneity of  arrangement  and  intrinsic  homogeneity  are  thus 
seen  to  be  independent  conceptions,  neither  being  a  conse- 
quence of  the  other. 

Given  a  denumerable  aggregate,  dense  within  a  circle  (or 
square),  it  is  always  possible  to  number  its  points  in  such  a 
way  as  to  satisfy  the  conditions  of  homogeneity.  One  of 
the  simplest  methods  of  doing  this  is  as  follows.  After 
having  numbered  some  of  the  points,  we  trace  a  gratmg 

1  An  analogous  condition  should  be  verified  for  the  shortest  distance  to  the 
boundary  of  points  very  near  to  this  boundary  and  not  lying  on  it. 


.  v*-     .  ,,..>. . 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

fine  enough  to  make  a  few  more  squares  than  points  already- 
numbered,  and  such  that  one  square  includes  at  most  one 
of  these  points.  There  will  then  be  some  squares  that  do 
not  contain  such  points.  In  each  of  these  we  number  one 
point  of  the  aggregate,  by  choosing  it  inside  a  square  con- 
centric with  the  first,  and  twice  smaller,  taking  the  point  of 
smallest  subscript  in  the  provisional  numbering  (thus  we  are 
sure  of  not  omitting  any  point). 

Any  system  of  numbering  that  satisfies  both  conditions  of 
homogeneity  will  be  spoken  of  as  normal.  It  is  easy  to 
verify  the  fact  that  the  methods  of  numbering  habitually 
used  lead  to  normal  arrangements. 

When  the  two  aggregates  that  are  dense  in  C  and  C  are 
numbered  normally,  it  is  possible  to  arrange  matters  so  that 
the  one-to-one  correspondence  set  up  between  their  elements 
shall  be  itself  normal ;  i.e.,  there  exist  between  the  provi- 
sional numbering,  p,  and  the  final  numbering,  w,  inequalities 
of  the  form 

p"  <  n  <  p^, 

where  the  exponents  a  and  /3  are  finite  and  depend  only  on 
the  number  of  dimensions  in  the  aggregate  considered,  and 
on  the  convergent  series  ^€n  which  has  been  used.  (In 
order  to  be  sure  that  a  and  ^  are  finite,  there  must  be  a  finite 
quantity  h  such  that  limn^en  =  o.) 

We  divide  the  aggregate  J  into  two  others,  J^  and  J^\ 
still  everywhere  dense,  and  the  aggregate  B,  similarly,  into 
B'  and  B'\  It  is  then  easy  to  show  that  the  correspondence 
can  be  set  up  in  such  a  way  that  the  points  of  A^  correspond 
to  those  of  B'  and  the  points  of  A''  to  the  points  of  B'\ 
For  that,  it  would  not  be  sufficient  of  course  to  apply  the 
general  theorem  first  to  J^  and  B'  and  then  to  J  and  B, 
because  the  correspondence  thus  set  up  between  two 
points  P  and  P'  inside  C  and  C\  respectively,  would  not  in 

[392] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

general  be  the  same  by  means  of  the  two  separate  corre- 
spondences. 

This  procedure  we  can  extend  to  the  case  where  A  and  B 
each  consists  of  a  denumerable  infinity  of  aliquot  parts,  every- 
where dense.  We  can  establish,  for  instance,  a  continuous 
one-to-one  correspondence  between  the  rational  numbers  in 
a  certain  interval,  and  the  algebraic  numbers  in  an  equal 
interval,  in  such  a  way  that  to  the  rational  numbers  whose 
denominators  consist  of  h  and  only  h  distinct  prime  factors, 
correspond  the  algebraic  numbers  which  are  the  roots  of  an 
irreducible  equation  of  degree  h  (for  /t  =  i  we  get  the  rational 
numbers  ;  if  we  wish  to  consider  only  the  irrational  algebraic 
numbers  we  must  take  irreducible  equations  of  degree  A  +  i). 


Ill 

Let    us    consider    now    two    regular    aggregates    of    zero 
measure,  of  which  the  fundamental  points  are  precisely  the 
denumerable  aggregates  A  and  B  inside  the  circles  C  and  C 
If  we  suppose  that  the  squares  of  exclusion  belonging  to  the 
corresponding  fundamental  points  have  as  their  sides  lines 
which  correspond,  it  is  evident  that  the  two  aggregates  will 
correspond  point  by  point  in  the  one-to-one  correspondence 
that  we  have   established   between   the   points  P  inside  C 
and  the  points  P'  inside  C     In  other  words,  given  a  regular 
aggregate  of  zero  measure  of  which  the  fundamental  points  B 
are  dense  in  C,  we  can  define  a  regular  aggregate  of  zero  meas- 
ure  of  which  the  fundamental  points   are  the  elements  of  an 
arbitrary  aggregate  A,  dense  in  C,  in  such  a  way  that  the  two 
aggregates  correspond  to  each  other  continuously  and  in  a  one- 
to-one  manner  (the   ratio  of  similitude  being  contained  be- 
tween I  —  €  and  I  +  e). 

Hence  in  order  to  study  regular  aggregates  of  zero  measure 
of  which  the  fundamental  points  are  dense  within  a  certain 

C393] 


1 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

region,  we  can  without  loss  of  generality  assume  that  the 
fundamental  points  are,  for  instance,  the  points  with  rational 
coordinates.  In  particular  it  is  easy  to  prove  this  important 
proposition  :  Every  regular  aggregate  of  zero  measure  of  which 
the  fundamental  points  are  dense  within  a  certain  region  has 
the  order  of  the  continuum.  In  other  words,  if  we  arrange  at 
pleasure  the  diminishing  of  the  squares  of  exclusion  in  the 
neighborhood  of  fundamental  points,  it  is  not  possible  to 
make  this  diminution  rapid  enough  so  that  the  fundamental 
points  shall  be  the  only  ones  of  the  aggregate. 

For  simplification  let  us  consider  the  case  of  a  single 
dimension  ;  the  demonstration  is  in  principle  the  same  for  any 
number  of  dimensions.  Let  ^„  be  the  intervals  of  exclusion 
belonging  to  the  points  ^„.  For  each  value  of  h  we  can 
define  a  positive  function  <i>n{n)  increasing  with  n,  such  that 

we  shall  have 

I 


measure  (y^J)  > 


<i>h{n) 


On  the  other  hand,  if  we  are  given  a  denumerable  succes- 
sion of  increasing  functions  <i>  ^(n),  it  is  possible,  according  to  a 
theorem  of  Paul  du  Bois-Reymond,  to  construct  a  function 
(/)(n)  increasing  more  rapidly  than  any  of  the  functions  <A/i(n). 
After  having  found  this  function  </)(n),  the  theory  of  con- 
tinuous functions  enables  us  to  define  an  infinite  number  of 
irrational  numbers  x  (an  infinity  which  has  the  order  of  the 
continuum)  such  that  there  exists  for  each  of  them  a  denu- 
merable infinity  of  relations  of  the  form 


X  — 


m 

n 


< 


4>h{n) 


where  m  and  n  are  integers.  Such  a  number  x,  whatever 
h  may  be,  belongs  to  at  least  one  of  the  intervals  P^^ ;  it  is 
therefore  an  element  of  the  aggregate  defined  by  the  points 

[3943 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

An  and  these  intervals  of  exclusion.  In  order  to  define  the 
numbers  x  and  show  that  their  aggregate  is  of  the  order  of  the 
continuum,  it  is  sufficient  to  investigate  a  continuous  fraction 
in  which  the  incomplete  quotients  increase  very  rapidly. 
If  we  write 


and  assume  that 


!3n+l  =  ClnQn  +  Qn-l 

where  (/)(w)  is  the  function  which  we  have  just  defined,  we 
shall  have,  from  the  nature  of  the  convergents. 


X  — 


n 


Qn 


< 


n+1 


(Jn+1         Qn 


< 


QnQn^l         <t>{Qn) 


But  the  totality  of  systems  of  integers  a„  which  verify  the 
relations  a^  >  <f>{Qn)  have,  themselves,  the  order  of  the  con- 
tinuum.^ 

If  we  wished  to  have  intervals  of  exclusion  which  should 
decrease  rapidly  enough  so  that  the  aggregate  of  points 
defined  by  them  would  be  composed  only  of  the  fundamental 
points,  the  </)/,(n)  would  have  to  contain  functions  increasing 
more  rapidly  than  any  0(n).  According  to  the  theorem  of 
Paul  du  Bois-Reymond,  that  is  not  possible  if  the  indices 
h  are  denumerable.  It  would  be  necessary  then  to  make 
belong  to  any  fundamental  point  a  transfinite  infinity  of 
intervals  of  exclusion,  the  corresponding  functions  0a(w) 
(where  a  denotes  a  transfinite  number)  being  such  that  every 
increasing  function  <j)(n)  is  surpassed  by  one  of  them.  In 
this  way,  however,  we  get  outside  the  domain  of  definitions 
expressible  in  a  finite  number  of  words. 

In  order  to  classify  the  regular  aggregates  of  zero  measure, 
it  is  better  to  consider  rather  than  the  functions  </);»(w)  which 

^  Each  an  may  be  odd  or  even ;  the  aggregate  of  x  then  includes  an  aggregate 
of  the  same  order  as  that  of  the  numbers  o.ioioiio  •••,  written  in  the  binary  scale. 

1:395: 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

we  have  defined,  the    functions  xP,{n)   determined    by  the 
relations 

^  measure  Jp^  =  j^y 

The  convergence  of  the  series  formed  by  the  intervals  of 
exclusion  of  order  h  implies  that  the  functions  Mn)  should 
increase  indefinitely  with  n.  After  the  theorem  of  Paul  du 
Bois-Reymond,  there  exists  a  function  iA(n)  increasing  less 
rapidly  than  any  of  these,  which  nevertheless  approaches 
+  00  as  w  approaches  oo.  Hence  whatever  the  value  of  h, 
if  we  take  n  large  enough,  we  shall  have 

^  measure  Jl< 


p=n 


^(n)' 


that  is  to  say,  that  the  different  series  formed  by  the  intervals 
of  exclusion  all  converge  more  rapidly  than  the  series 


X 


4-i)J* 


Jp(n)     xP{n-\-i). 

The  more  rapid  the  increase  of  iA(n),  the  fewer  points  are 
included  in  the  aggregate  of  measure  zero,  because  the 
intervals  of  exclusion  in  that  case  decrease  more  rapidly. 
It  is  natural,  then,  to  take  the  function  \P{n)  as  defining 
what  we  may  call  the  asymptotic  order  of  the  regular  aggre- 
gate of  zero  measure.  These  orders  can  be  expressed  by 
means  of  the  notations  used  for  orders  of  infinity ;  \P{n)  =  n^ 
will  be  said  to  be  of  order  p,  xl^{n)  =  e**  of  order  «,  e*"  of  order 
co\  etc.  We  meet  the  aggregates  of  order  co^  in  defining 
monogenic  functions  which  are  not  analytic. 


IV 


Perhaps  it  is  opportune  to  emphasize  a  little  the  general 
conclusions  which  follow  from  this  rapid  study  of  aggregates 
of  zero  measure. 

[3963 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Aggregates  of  zero  measure  have  a  fundamental  position 
in  the  theory  of  functions.  It  is,  in  fact,  always  possible  to 
inclose  the  singularities  of  finite  functions  in  aggregates 
which  are  either  of  zero  measure  or  of  measure  as  small  as 
we  like.  On  the  other  hand,  aggregates  which  are  not  of 
zero  measure  have  a  uniform  quality,  being  formed  of  con- 
tinuous aggregates  either  positive  or  negative.  They  are 
heterogeneous  with  regard  to  the  continuum.  Aggregates 
of  zero  measure  can,  however,  be  sensibly  homogeneous  with 
regard  to  the  continuum,  that  is  to  say,  identical  with  them- 
selves in  intervals  as  small  as  we  like. 

The  concept  of  aggregate  of  zero  measure  is  so  general 
that  we  cannot  hope  to  make  a  profound  investigation  of  the 
properties  of  functions  without  studying  minutely  this 
general  notion.  That  is  to  say,  we  must  not  regard  all 
aggregates  of  zero  measure  as  undifferentiable.  The  classi- 
fication based  on  the  asymptotic  diminution  of  intervals  of 
exclusion  seems  to  me  to  be  a  first  step  in  this  study  which 
faces  the  students  of  analysis. 

With  this  question,  as  with  all  those  where  the  general 
notion  of  increasing  functions  enters  (as,  for  example,  in  the 
theory  of  the  convergence  of  series  with  positive  terms), 
difficulties  of  a  transfinite  nature  are  presented  which  we 
cannot  hope  entirely  to  surmount.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  problems  which  are  actually  met  with  are  generally 
if  not  always  free  of  these  difficulties  (this  is  the  case,  for 
instance,  with  the  usual  criteria  for  the  convergence  of  series 
of  positive  terms ;  for,  although  theoretically  quite  special, 
they  are  nevertheless  practically  sufficient  for  the  treatment 
of  the  series  which  are  presented  in  all  researches  in  analysis). 
We  can  legitimately  hope  that  it  will  be  the  same  way  with 
the  classification  of  aggregates  of  measure  zero.  Theoreti- 
cally the  complexity  of  this  classification  surpasses  that  of 
the  study  of  series  of  positive  terms,  a  study  which  will  never 

1:397] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

be  finished ;  but  practically,  a  relatively  restricted  number 
of  classes  will  suffice  for  the  needs  of  analysis. 

In  closing  I  should  like  to  direct  attention  to  a  notable 
consequence  of  the  theorem  about  the  correspondence 
between  two  denumerable  aggregates  which  are  everywhere 
dense.  It  might  seem  natural,  passing  from  the  finite  to  a 
denumerable  infinitive,  to  suppose  that  the  positions  of  equi- 
librium of  the  centers  of  gravity  of  the  molecules  of  a  solid 
body  should  form  a  denumerably  dense  aggregate.  But 
a  priori  it  would  seem  quite  an  arbitrary  hypothesis  to 
suppose  that  they  should  coincide  with  the  points  of  rational 
coordinates.  This  simple  arithmetic  determination  seems 
to  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  physical  conception.  In  fact, 
it  evidently  is  not  necessary.  But  it  is  as  general  as  any 
other.  The  important  point  is  that  the  hypothesis  verifies 
the  conditions  of  homogeneity  of  arrangement  and  intrinsic 
homogeneity,  as  we  have  stated  them.  The  arithmetic 
treatment  of  the  approximation  of  numbers  by  rational 
numbers  is  thus  the  reflection  of  the  general  properties  of 
dense  aggregates. 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


1:3983 


Third  Lecture 
MONOGENIC  UNIFORM  NON-ANALYTIC  FUNCTIONS  1 

I.     THE    THEORIES    OF    CAUCHY,    WEIERSTRASS 

AND    RIEMANN 

THE  integration  by  d'Alembert  of  the  equation  of  vibrat- 
ing strings  led  to  a  series  of  researches  out  of  which 
the  notion  of  an  arbitrary  function  took  shape.  Among  the 
geometricians  who  contributed  to  clarify  the  new  ideas,  there 
should  be  mentioned  Euler,  in  the  front  rank,  and  besides 
him  Clairaut,  Daniel  Bernoulli  and  Lagrange.  The  question 
was  that  of  the  relation  between  the  analytic  and  the  physical 
definitions  of  a  function  :  if  a  string  is  displaced  arbitrarily 
from  its  position  of  equilibrium,  does  there  exist  a  formula 
which  represents  exactly  the  initial  state  of  the  string? 
Fourier  answered  in  the  affirmative  and  set  out  the  method  of 
calculation  of  the  coefficients  of  the  trigonometric  series 
which  represents  an  arbitrary  function.  The  views  put 
forward  by  the  genius  of  Fourier  have  been  confirmed  by 
the  vigorous  analysis  of  Lejeune-Dirichlet. 

The  discovery  of  Fourier  revolutionized  the  notions  preva- 
lent up  to  that  time ;  it  was  believed,  with  Euler,  that  to 
every  analytic  expression  there  corresponded  a  curve  of 
which  successive  parts  depended  on  each  other :  in  order  to 
express  this  interdependence,  Euler  created  the  expression 
'  continuous  function  ' :  the  sense  of  this  expression  has  since 
been  modified. 

Under  the  influence  of  the  same  ideas  Lagrange  endeavored 
to  prove  that  every  continuous  function  can  be  developed 

1  Translated  from  the  French  by  Professor  Percy  John  Daniell,  of  the  Rice 
Institute. 

1:399:1 


H 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

in  a  Taylor  series  :  this  series  would  be  the  tangible  form  of 
the  connection,  so  mysterious  till  then,  between  the  different 
arcs  of  a  continuous  curve ;  the  knowledge  of  a  small  arc 
would  have  been  sufficient  to  know  the  whole  curve;  but 
Fourier  proved  exactly  that  the  problem  here  was  illusory, 
for  the  physicist  who  draws  a  curve  remains  at  each  instant 
free  to  modify  its  aspect ;  the  curve  once  drawn,  it  is  always 
possible  to  represent  it  in  its  entirety  by  a  unique  analytic 
expression. 

This  led  to  the  apparently  paradoxical  result  that  there 
existed  no  logical  reason  for  regarding  two  segments  of  the 
same  straight  line,  for  example,  as  corresponding  to  the  same 
function,  since  it  was  always  permissible  likewise  to  regard 
as  a  unique  function  the  ordinate  of  the  continuous  curve 
formed  of  two  different  straight  lines.  At  the  most  it  could 
be  said  that,  in  the  case  of  two  segments  of  the  same  straight 
line,  the  formula  is  simpler  than  in  the  case  of  two  segments 
of  different  straight  lines,  but  this  criterion  of  simplicity 
does  not  seem  capable  of  precise  definition,  unless  one  is 
confined  to  algebraic  functions.  The  paradox  was  cleared 
up  by  extension  of  the  field  of  study  of  functions ;  Cauchy 
showed  that  the  properties  of  real  functions  could  only  be 
well  understood  if  imaginary  values  of  the  variable  were  also 
studied  ;  the  idea  of  a  function  of  a  complex  variable  became 
indispensable.  Cauchy  based  this  idea  on  the  definition  of 
monogeneity  ;  a  function  of  the  complex  variable  z  =  x  +  iy 
is  called  monogenic  if  it  has  a  unique  derivative.  A  function 
which  is  monogenic  at  every  point  of  a  region  without  any 
exception  —  that  is,  not  allowing  in  the  region  any  singular 
point  —  can  be  developed  in  a  Taylor  series  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  any  point  in  the  region ;  the  radius  of  convergence 
of  the  series  is  equal  to  the  distance  from  the  center  to  the 
nearest   singular   point.     From   this   fundamental   theorem 

C400:] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Cauchy  deduces  the  calculation  of  the  integrals  of  the  proper 
differential  equations  along  any  path  in  the  plane. 

Cauchy's  theory  was  systematized  by  Weierstrass  and 
Riemann.  Weierstrass  defined  an  analytic  function,  in  an 
exact  manner,  by  means  of  elements  and  thus  arrived  at  the 
idea  of  a  region  of  natural  existence,  an  idea  which  was 
contained  implicitly  in  Cauchy's  work,  but  which  was  not 
mentioned  explicitly  by  him.  Riemann  conceived  a  mon- 
ogenic function  a  priori  independently  of  any  analytic 
expression  and  showed  the  advantages  of  this  geometrical 

conception. 

In  reality,  the  analytic  point  of  view  of  Weierstrass  and 
the  geometric  one  of  Riemann  find  their  most  perfect 
synthesis  in  Cauchy's  fundamental  theorem  :  monogeneity 
within  a  circle  involves  the  existence  of  a  Taylor  series  con- 
vergent within  the  circle.  This  theorem  established  a 
necessary  connection  between  values  of  the  same  function 
as  a  simple  consequence  of  monogeneity :  it  is  sufficient  to 
know  that  a  function  is  monogenic  within  a  circle,  in  order 
that  its  value  at  any  interior  point  should  be  known  by  a 
knowledge  of  its  values  in  the  neighborhood  of  another 
point.  Since  our  aim  is  to  define  monogenic  functions  in 
regions  more  general  than  those  considered  up  to  the  present 
in  the  theory  of  analytic  functions,  it  is  necessary  to  make 
precise  the  definition  of  these  new  regions. 

I  shall  call  a  region  in  which  an  analytic  function  can  be 
defined  in  the  sense  of  Weierstrass  a  Weierstrassian  region  or 
W  region.  I  shall  call  regions  more  general  than  /F  regions, 
in  which  a  uniform  monogenic  function  can  be  defined, 
Cauchy  regions,  or  C  regions,  in  honor  of  the  creator  of  the 
theory  of  monogenic  functions.  We  shall  see  that  the 
essential  properties  of  monogenic  functions  in  the  C  domains 
which  we  define  are  the  same  as  in  W  regions ;  this  does  not 

1:401] 


I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

exclude  the  possibility  of  defining  C  regions  more  general 
again  than  our  C  regions.  In  other  words,  we  cannot  assert 
that  our  generalization  covers  all  uniform  monogenic  func- 
tions :  but  it  brings  us  to  a  definition  of  a  more  general  class 
than  the  class  /Fof  the  analytic  functions  of  Weierstrass. 

fV  regions  are  characterized  by  the  following  properties. 
Let  us  call  a  F  circle  every  circle  such  that  all  the  points 
within  r  belong  to  fF.  Every  point  P  of  /F  is  within  a 
r  circle  :  the  F  circles  corresponding  to  two  points  P  and  Q 
of  W  can  be  reunited  by  a  finite  number  of  F  circles  cutting 
each  other  two  by  two.  To  every  uniform  analytic  function 
there  corresponds  a  fF  region ;  inversely,  M.  Runge  has 
shown  that  to  every  fF  region  corresponds  an  infinity  of 
uniform  analytic  functions  having  precisely  fF  as  the  region 
of  existence. 

If  it  is  assumed  that  there  is  no  other  process  of  analytic 
continuation  than  the  Taylor  series,  the  boundary  of  the 
fF  region  is  a  natural  limit  of  existence  of  the  analytic  func- 
tion, and  those  portions  of  the  plane,  if  such  exist,  which  do 
not  belong  to  fF  ought  to  be  considered  as  a  lacunar  space. 
On  this  point  Weierstrass  has  insisted  several  times,  and  it 
has  been  made  conspicuous  in  the  clearest  way  by  M.  Henri 
Foincare.  Let  us  consider  a  region  D  of  simple  form,  such 
as  the  interior  of  a  circle,  and  let  us  define  a  function  G(z) 
having  D  as  its  lacunar  space  and  another  function  Gi{z) 
defined  only  within  D  and  having  consequently  all  the  rest 
of  the  plane  as  its  lacunar  space.  Let  us  divide  the  contour 
of  D  into  two  arcs  D^  and  /)''.  M.  Foincare  shows  that  it  is 
possible  to  find  two  uniform  functions  F{z)  and  Fi{z)  existing 
in  the  whole  plane,  except  for  the  singular  line  D'  for  F 
and  D'^  for  Fi,  and  in  such  a  way  that 

F  -{-  Fi  =  G      outside  D, 
F  -j-  Fi  =  Gi     within  D. 

[402] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

If  then  the  functions  F  and  Fi  are  regarded  as  uniform, 
the  function  G{z)  has  the  continuation  Gi{z)  which  has  been 
chosen  entirely  arbitrarily ;  it  is  then  proper  to  discard  all 
ideas  of  a  continuation  within  the  lacunar  space.  This 
paradox  is  apparently  cleared  up  if  it  is  observed  that,  when 
a  function  such  as  F{z)  possesses  a  singular  line  D',  supposed 
impassable,  this  function  remains  uniform  in  Weierstrass's 
sense  when  there  is  added  a  non-uniform  function  such  as 

^,  Zq  and  z;i  being  two  points  of  the  line  D\     The 


2;  —  z 


Z  —  Zi 


log 

remarkable  result  due  to  M.  Foincare  can  then  be  inter- 
preted by  the  hypothesis  that  F{z)  and  Fi{z)  are  not  really 
uniform :  but  in  order  that  this  hypothesis  should  have  a 
meaning,  it  is  necessary  to  generalize  the  definition  of  con- 
tinuation, in  a  way  so  as  to  be  able  to  pass  in  certain  cases 
the  impassable  cuts  of  Weierstrass ;  we  shall  see  very  soon 
how  this  result  can  be  obtained. 

But  I  wished  before  now  to  say  some  words  concerning  the 
ideas  of  Riemann,  although  it  is  specially  in  the  study  of 
non-uniform  functions,  of  which  I  shall  not  speak  here,  that 
Riemann's  theory  has  shown  itself  productive. 

Cauchy  has  insisted  several  times  on  the  importance  of 
monogeneity.  If  an  elementary  function  obtained  by  a 
simple  calculation  made  on  z  is  considered  and  if,  for  such 
a  function  G{z),  the  ratio 

G(z-^-8'z)-G(z) 
8z 

is  calculated,  this  ratio  tends  to  a  determinate  limit  when 
52;  tends  to  zero,  with  any  argument.  Cauchy  expresses  this 
essential  fact  by  calling  the  function  monogenic. 

If  we  put 

G(z)  =P{x,y)-{-tQ{x,y), 

[4033 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

the  condition  of  monogeneity   is   translated   into  the  two 

fundamental  equations 

dP^dQ 

dx      dy^ 

dP^__dQ 

dy  dx 

Cauchy  has  shown  that  these  equations,  when  they  are 
verified  in  a  region  of  the  plane,  involve  the  existence  of  the 
Taylor  series;  that  is  to  say,  of  that  which  can  be  called 
analyticity  in  Weierstrass's  sense.  Cauchy's  demonstra- 
tion assumes  the  continuity  of  the  derivative ;  M.  Goursat, 
in  a  well-known  piece  of  work,  has  shown  that  the  existence 
of  the  first  derivative  is  sufficient,  and  involves  the  con- 
tinuity and  existence  of  all  the  derivatives  ;  M.  Paul  Montel 
has  extended  this  result  to  cases  where  the  existence  of  the 
derivative  has  not  been  assumed  in  a  set  of  points  of  measure 
zero.  The  statement  of  these  researches  is  outside  my  scope  ; 
I  should  mention  them  nevertheless,  because  they  are  in  a 
way  complementary  to  the  results  which  I  shall  state  further 
on.  What  is  sufficient  to  remember  is  that,  in  the  /F  regions, 
monogenic  functions  are  analytic;  for  this  reason  the 
expression  monogenic  function  is  no  longer  in  use  by  certain 
geometricians,  the  expression  analytic  function  being  con- 
sidered equivalent ;  as  our  aim  is  precisely  to  define  mono- 
genic functions  which  are  not  analytic,  it  is  important  to 
distinguish  clearly  between  the  two  expressions. 

It  is  difiicult  to  find  out  if  Cauchy  conceived  the  existence 
of  a  monogenic  function  independently  of  any  analytic 
expression.  In  fact,  he  always  reasoned  about  functions 
which  were  defined,  implicitly  or  explicitly  through  known 
functions,  by  means  of  ordinary  or  partial  differential  equa- 
tions ;  but  his  reasoning  applies  without  modification  to  a 
function  defined  in  a  purely  ideal  way  as  a  correspondence 

[4043 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

between  z  and  G{z),  This  was  the  conception  of  Riemann, 
and  has  certainly  rendered  good  service,  as  much  in  the 
field  of  real  variables  where  it  was  introduced  by  Dirichlet, 
as  in  the  field  of  complex  variables,  by  accustoming  mathe- 
maticians to  very  general  methods  of  reasoning,  made  once 
for  all  and  susceptible  of  application  to  cases  not  foreseen 
at  the  time  when  the  reasoning  was  done.  In  fact,  there 
is  no  real  difference  between  Cauchy's  and  Riemann's  point 
of  view ;  to  apply  considerations  like  those  of  Riemann  to 
one  determinate  function,  this  function  must  be  defined,  that 
is  to  say  must  be  distinguishable  from  other  functions ;  and 
if  this  definition  is  effective,  it  returns  to  the  category  of  those 
which  Cauchy  admitted.  This  point  belongs  to  the  con- 
troversies concerning  the  axiom  of  Zermelo ;  RIemann's 
point  of  view  is  otherwise  legitimate,  whatever  attitude  is 
adopted  in  this  controversy ;  for  those  who  require  a  precise 
definition.  It  saves  one  from  thinking  of  all  the  processes  of 
definition  which  can  be  imagined;  for  those  to  whom  an 
Ideal  definition  is  sufficient,  it  allows  one  to  treat  ideally 
even  those  functions  which  will  never  be  defined  practically. 
It  Is  by  means  of  Cauchy's  fundamental  theorem 


/«=.-^X^i^. 


r 

that  it  can  be  shown  that  monogeneity  in  a  /F  region  involves 
analyticity  in  the  region.  We  shall  use  this  theorem  also 
in  studying  monogenic  functions  in  a  region,  not  /F;  It  will 
be  convenient  in  order  to  argue  in  a  general  manner  about 
all  the  possible  methods  of  definition  of  these  functions,  to 
consider  them  as  defined  In  RIemann's  way;  that  is,  to 
assume  that  nothing  is  known  about  such  a  function  except 
that  it  is  monogenic.  It  is  necessary  to  show  afterward  that 
a  theory  thus  constructed  is  not  empty,  by  giving  actual 
examples  of  functions  defined  no  longer  ideally,  but  explicitly. 

1:4053 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

I  shall  restrict  myself  to  stating  the  definition  of  C 
regions  in  a  particular  case ;  if  the  properties  of  sets  of  zero 
measure  studied  in  the  previous  lecture  are  used,  it  can 
be  seen  that  this  particular  statement  can  be  considerably 
generalized. 

Let  us  consider  a  fF  region,  and  a  region  within  W  in 
which  we  define  a  denumerable  infinity  of  fundamental 
points,  everywhere  dense  ;  we  shall  assume  that  these  funda- 
mental points  J„  are  the  points  within  the  circle  |  z  |  =  i 
whose  coordinates  are  rational.  To  each  point  ^^  is  at- 
tached a  positive  number  r^,  and  we  shall  assume  that  these 
numbers  r„  tend  very  rapidly  to  zero  as  n  increases  indefi- 
nitely ;  we  shall  define  later  the  manner  of  decrease ;  it  is 
sufiicient  here  to  know  that  the  remainder  of  the  conver- 
gent series  n  +  r2  H h  ^„  H is  less  than  a  quarter  of  the 

last  term  retained  ;  we  shall  denote  by  C^  the  region  ob- 
tained by  excluding  from  the  W  region  the  points  within 
circles  C^^  defined  as  follows.     Let  us  consider   circles  Sn^ 

having  as  their  centers  the  points  ^„  and  for  their  radii  —  ; 

the  circle  Of  has  its  center  at  Ji,  and  its  radius  is  the  smallest 
of  the  numbers  between  ri/2'^  and  ri/i'^^^  and  such  that 
it  does  not  cut  any  of  the  circles  Sn\n  >  i) ;  this  is  possible 

in  virtue  of  the  hypothesis  ri>  4.^  r^,  from  which  it  follows 


00 


>  2  V  -^  ;  the  Sl!^  circles  are  then  either  inside 


that  ^--4- 

2«       2«+^  ^7  2« 

Cf  (including  those  which  touch  internally),  or  outside  Ci^ 
(including  those  which  touch  externally).  We  shall  take 
no  account  of  the  interior  circles,  and  we  shall  denote  by 
An^  the  fundamental  point  of  smallest  index  correspond- 
ing to  the  exterior  circles ;  the  circle  &  will  have  its  cen- 
ter at  Aa^  and   its    radius   the   smallest   number   contained 

n4063 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

between  —  and  —  such  that  it  does  not  cut  any  of  the 

^  20.  2^^^ 

circles  Sif^(w  >  n^) ;  it  is  exterior  to  the  circle  Of  since  it  is 
interior  to  the  circle  S^^\  and  at  the  same  time  exterior  to 
the  circles  SJ?^  of  index  less  than  n^,  for  these  circles  are  in- 
terior to  Ci^^  because  of  the  method  by  which  n^  was  chosen. 
Similarly  the  circle  Gf  etc.  is  defined  and  one  sees  that  if 
the  region   obtained  by  excluding  the  points  inside  circles 
C^^  is  denoted  by  C^,  and  the  region  obtained  by  excluding 
the  points   inside  circles  Sf  by   CJ,   all    the    points    of   C, 
belong  to  C^+i,  while  all  the  points  of  C[^x  belong  to  Ca+i ; 
the  consideration  of  the  regions  C^  is  then  equivalent  to  that 
of  the  regions  C^+i  and  evades  the  difiiculties  which  result 
from  intersections  of  the  circles. 

The  points  of  the  circumference  of  O^'^  are  said  to  con- 
stitute the  frontier  of  C^ ;  the  points  of  C,  which  do  not 
belong  to  this  frontier  are  called  interior  to  C^ ;  it  is  impor- 
tant to  observe  that  we  use  the  word  interior  here  in  a  dif- 
ferent sense  from  the  usual  one  in  the  theory  of  W  regions. 
The  points  of  the  set  C^,  situated  in  the  interior  of  the  circle 
of  radius  i,  form  a  perfect  set,  which  can  be  considered  as  the 
derived  set  of  the  set  of  its  frontier  points  C)^\ 

The  region  C  is  defined  as  the  set  of  all  points  such  that 
each  of  them  is  interior  to  some  C^ :  the  region  C  is  not  perfect, 
for  it  does  not  contain  the  points  ^„,  which  are  its  limiting 
points.  We  know  that  the  set  (of  zero  measure)  of  points 
which  do  not  belong  to  C  has  the  power  of  the  continuum. 
We  shall  say  that  a  region  D  is  interior  to  C,  when  all  the 
points  of  D  belong  to  one  and  the  same  C^,  of  fixed  index. 
Among  the  regions  interior  to  C,  we  shall  consider  a  little 
more  exclusively  the  regions  Q :  every  point  of  C^  is  interior 

to  Cg+x. 

The  region  C  will  be  said  to  belong  to  the  class  (C)  of 

[407] 


V 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Cauchy  regions  which  we  are  studying  here  if  the  numbers 
r„  are  such  that,  for  n  sufficiently  large, 


(I) 


log  log  log  —  >  n ; 


n 


if  this  condition  is  verified  for  two  regions  C  and  C\  it  is 
verified  for  the  part  common  to  C  and  C 

Together  with  the  regions  Cj,  and  C,  we  shall  consider 
reduced  regions  which  we  shall  denote  by  F^  and  F.  To  a 
region  C  corresponds  a  determinate  system  of  regions  Cp, 
and  an  infinity  of  systems  of  reduced  regions ;  the  following 
is  the  definition  of  one  of  these  systems.  Let  us  suppose 
numbers  p„  given,  tending  to  zero  rapidly  as  n  increases 
indefinitely,  but  much  less  rapidly  than  tn ;  more  precisely, 
we  shall  suppose  that 

(2)  -^<loglogi; 

and,  at  the  same  time,  whatever  the  fixed  number  a,  that, 
for  n  sufficiently  large, 

(3)  ->^^ 

Pn 

these  two  conditions  (2)  and  (3)  are  quite  consistent  by  virtue 

of  (i).^ 

The  regions  F^,  are  defined  by  means  of  pn  as  the  Cj,'s 
by  means  of  Tn,  that  is,  are  limited  by  circles  of  radii  be- 
tween —  and  -^  exterior  to  each  other.     The  region  F  Is 

formed  of  the  set  of  points  interior  (In  the  sense  Indicated 
above)  to  each  F,,.  The  regions  F^  are  perfect,  F  Is  not 
perfect;  the  set  complementary  to  F  has  zero  measure 
and  the  power  of  the  continuum. 

The  set  C  contains  all  points  of  F  since  Cp  contains  all 

^  (i)  (2)  and  (3)  could  be  replaced  by  wider  conditions  :  my  aim  here  is  to  simplify 
the  statement. 

[4083 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

points  of  Tj, :   but  C  contains  besides  points  which  do  not 
belong  to  F. 

The  following  theorem  is  fundamental : 

If  a  function  of  the  coordinates  of  a  point  P  is  defined  in  C 
and  continuous  in  every  Cj„  the  knowledge  of  its  values  at  all 
points  of  F  involves  the  knowledge  of  its  values  at  all  points  of  C. 

In  other  words,  two  functions  continuous  In  C  (that  is, 
defined  In  all  C  and  continuous  In  every  region  interior  to  C) 
cannot  coincide  In  all  F  without  coinciding  in  all  C;  or, 
finally,  a  function  continuous  in  C  and  zero  in  F  is  zero  in  C, 

In  fact,  let  P  be  a  point  of  C ;  this  point  belonging  to  a  set 
Cj,  interior  to  C,  It  is  a  limiting  point  of  the  set  formed  by  the 
frontier^  of  C^;  it  is  sufficient  In  order  to  prove  that  the 
function  is  zero  at  P,  since  it  is  continuous  in  C^,  to  show  that 
It  is  zero  on  each  circumference  which  constitutes  this 
frontier  (the  remark  has  already  been  made  that  each  of  these 
circumferences  is  interior  to  C^+i) ;  then,  on  one  of  these 
circumferences  (as  on  every  rectifiable  curve  traced  in  the 
plane),  the  points  which  are  part  of  F  are  everywhere  dense ; 
the  function  being  continuous  on  this  curve  is  then  zero 
throughout  this  curve  if  it  Is  zero  at  all  points  of  F. 

When  we  speak  of  a  reduced  region,  we  shall  assume  that 
we  consider  a  determinate  region,  the  p„'s  being  chosen  in  a 
precise  way,  satisfying  the  inequalities  (2)  and  (3).  It  might 
happen  that  we  had  to  consider  at  the  same  time  another 
region  F'  defined  by  numbers  p^ ;  If 

(4)  P-=Pn 

we  say  that  F'  is  of  order  /?  with  respect  to  F ;  if  /3  is  greater 
than  one,  the  numbers  p^  satisfy  the  inequalities  (2)  and  (3) 


1  We  neglect  points  P  which  would  be  interior  to  C  in  Weierstrass's  sense ;  for 
them  the  proposition  is  evident,  since  they  are  centers  of  circles  inclosing  no  An  in 
their  interior,  they  are  also  interior  to  T  in  Weierstrass's  sense. 

[409: 


fl 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

when  the  Pa's  satisfy  them:  in  this  case  the  set  T^  is 
interior  to  T^,  for  the  excluded  circles  of  radii  ^  are  larger 
than  the  circles  of  radii  ^  (for  p„  can  always  be  supposed 

2 

less  than  i). 

Let  us  remark  finally  that  the  points  of  C,  which  lie  on 
any  curve  whatever,  a  straight  line  for  instance,  form  a 
perfect  set,  defined  by  contiguous  intervals  (in  M.  Baire's 
sense),  which  are  the  chords  intercepted  on  the  straight  line 
by  the  circles.  This  set  may  or  may  not  contain  intervals  : 
but  in  every  case  it  is  perfect,  and  consequently  a  function 
continuous  in  Cp  and  zero  at  all  the  points  which  limit  the 
contiguous  intervals  is  zero  at  all  points  of  the  set  at  the 
same  time  with  all  its  derivatives  in  C,. 


II.     MONOGENIC    FUNCTIONS    IN    C  REGIONS 

We  shall  say  that  a  function  F{z)  is  monogenic  in  a  region 

such  as  C  if  : 

1°.  It  is  continuous  zviVain  C  (that  is,  as  we  have  explained, 
continuous  in  every  C,,  interior  to  C;  since  the  set  Cp  is 
perfect,  this  continuity  in  Cj,  is  uniform) ; 

2°.  At  every  point  P  of  C,  it  has  a  derivative  with  respect 
to  z,  unique  and  continuous  within  C.  To  define  the  deriva- 
tive a  set  Cp  of  which  P  is  a  part  is  considered,  and  denoting 
by  ?'  any  other  point  of  C,  the  limit  of  the  ratio 


(5) 


F(p')-F(p) 


pp 


is  found  when  the  vector  pp'  =  z'  -  z  tends  to  zero ;  if 
this  limit  exists  for  every  value  of  p,  it  is  evidently  independ- 
ent of  the  value  of  p,  for  all  points  of  Cp  belong  to  Cj,+  g; 
for  this  reason  this  limit  can  be  called  the  derivative  of  F{z) 

[410] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

within  C,  that  is  in  every  region  interior  to  C.  The  con- 
tinuity of  the  derivative  within  C  is  to  be  understood  in  the 
same  way  as  the  continuity  of  the  function  itself  within  C : 
continuity  in  each  C,,  interior  to  C.  This  hypothesis  of  the 
continuity  of  the  derivative  is  doubtless  superfluous ;  but 
it  simplifies  the  argument. 

Since  the  set  C,  is  perfect,  every  function  continuous  in 
Cj,  is  bounded  in  Cp. 

Let  us  mention  at  once  an  example  of  the  simplest  kind 
of  a  C  region  and  of  a  function  monogenic  in  this  region.^ 

Let  us  form  the  series 


n 


00        n       n  ^    * 


n 


Clearly  this  series  is  convergent  outside  the  square  T  of 
which  the  vertices  are  the  points  2;  =  o,  i,  i,  i  +  i.  Inside 
this  square  the  series  has  an  infinity  of  poles ;  in  fact,  all  the 

points  whose  coordinates  are  rational  numbers  x  ^■^^  y  =-. 


n 


But  if  circles  having  these  poles  as  centers  and  radii  —^  be 

n 

considered,  the  series  is  absolutely  and  uniformly  convergent 
at  all  points  outside  these  circles,  whatever  the  fixed  number 
€  may  be.     The  same  is  true  if  circles  F^J^  with  centers  at 

the  points  ^,  ^  and  radii  y  <?"'*"  are  considered,  where  A  is  a 
n    n  h 

fixed  integer  which  we  are  allowed  to  Increase  Indefinitely. 

I  shall  call  F,  the  set  of  circles  F^*^  and  C,  the  set  of  points 

which  are  not  inside  any  of  the  circles  T^i\     There  exists  an 

infinity  of  curves  which  cross  the  circle  and  of  which  all  the 

points  belong  to  one  same  region  C^. 

1  The  region  C  considered  here  is  a  little  more  general  than  the  regions  defined 
above,  in  the  sense  that  the  series  2n  converges  a  little  less  rapidly. 


\  i 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

The  function  F{z)  is  evidently  monogenic  within  the 
region  C  which  is  the  Hmit  of  the  C^'s ;  it  has  in  fact  at  each 
point  of  this  region  a  determinate  unique  derivative,  which 
is  obtained  by  differentiating  the  series  term  by  term.  The 
value  of  this  derivative  is  independent  of  the  way  in  which 
the  increment  dz  tends  to  zero,  with  the  reservation,  of 
course,  that  z  and  2;  +  62;  are  inside  C^. 

The  study  of  monogenic  functions  within  a  region  C 
requires  the  extension  of  Cauchy's  fundamental  theory  to  the 
contour  which  limits  a  perfect  region  C^.  To  this  end  we 
shall  establish  at  once  the  following  fundamental  property 
of  a  function  F{z)  monogenic  in  the  region  C.  If  we  denote 
by  ^  a  fixed  number 


(6) 


f^F(z)dz=xSc^^  nz)^^ 


the  curve  K  being  any  simple  curve  all  of  whose  points  are 
inside  C^,  the  sum  2  referring  to  all  the  circles  Cf  which  are 
inside  Cj, ;   the  integrals  are  all  taken  in  the  direct  sense. 

We  shall  set 
(7)  F{z)  =P{x,y)  +iQ{x,y), 

so  that  the  equation  (6)  becomes  two  equations,  of  which 
it  is  sufficient  to  demonstrate  one ;   for  example. 


(8) 


S^Pdx-Qdy  =  !,£,,  Pdx-Qdy, 


To  prove  this  relation,  we  define  a  function  Pi{x,  y),  finite 
and  determinate  at  all  points  interior  to  K,  and  coinciding 
with  P{x,  y)  at  the  points  inside  K  which  belong  to  C^ ; 
there  remains  the  definition  of  Pi{x,y)  inside  the  circles 
ST  ;  on  the  circumference  of  these  circles  it  coincides  with 
P{x,y).  We  shall  define  Pi{x,  y)  inside  the  circle  by  the 
condition  that  on  chords  of  the  circle  parallel  to  Oy  it  varies 

L412] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

linearly.  (Its  values  at  the  extremities  are  known  for  they 
coincide  with  that  of  P{x^  y).)  The  function  Pi{x^  y)  thus 
defined  is  continuous  within  K  and  has  at  every  point  a 

hP 

derivative  — ^ ;   this  derivative  is  bounded  according  to  the 
by 

hypothesis  that  the  derivatives  of  P  are  bounded   (which 

is  involved  by  the  existence  and  continuity  of  the  derivatives 

of  F{z)) ;    in  fact,  at  points  inside  C^  the  derivative  of  Pi 

coincides  with  the  derivative  of  P;    at  points  inside  Cn\ 

the  derivative  of  Pi  is  constant  along  a  chord  parallel  to  Oy 

and  equal  to  the  quotient  of  the  difi'erence  of  the  values  of 

Pi  (that  is,  of  P)  at  the  ends  of  the  chord,  divided  by  the 

length  of  this  chord.     The  difi'erence  of  the  values  of  P  is 


(9) 


/ 

Jm 


dx-\--z-dy 


MN dx  dy 

if  MN  denotes  the  arc  subtended  by  the  chord. 

This  integral  is  less  than  the  product  of  the  length  of  the 


arc  MN  and  the  sum 


dx 

dP 

dy 

and  its  quotient  when  it 


is  divided  by  the  chord  MN  is  at  most  equal  to 


2 


dp 

dx 

dP 

dy 

and  is  consequently  bounded  at  the  same  time  as  the  de- 


rivatives 


dP        1  dP 

and 


dx 


dy 


Similarly  the  values  of  Pi  lying  between  the  values  of  P, 
Pi  have  the  same  boundary  as  P} 

dP 

1  The  derivative  -— ^  is  discontinuous  at  points  on  a  circumference.     This  pro- 

ay 
duces  no  inconvenience;    one  can  modify  the  definition  of  Pi  by  choosing  other 
curves  instead  of  straight  lines.     Sufficiently  simple  results  can  be  obtained  by 
taking  the  sum  of  a  parabola  and  a  sinusoidal  curve. 

1:4133 


I 

1  I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

According  to  a  classical  result,  denoting  by  ^^^  the  area 
within  K 

since  on  K,  P\  coincides  with  P. 

Similarly  Qi{x,  y)  being  defined  by  means  of  Q{x,  y)  in 
the  same  way  as  Pi  by  means  of  P  (taking  always  parallels 
to  Ox  in  place  of  parallels  to  Oy)  : 

It  follows  that 

do)       X/'^-eiy=-/l('^  +  fWy- 

The  double  integral  of  the  right-hand  side  reduces  to  zero 
for  those  portions  of  the  area  {K)  which  belong  to  C^,  for 
at  a  point  inside  Cj, 

dy       dx      dy       dx 

The  formula  (lo)  then  reduces  to 

'  2 

But  the  area  of  Cf  is  equal  to  ^  ;  on  the  other  hand, 

the  moduli  of  —  and  -^  are  less  than  a  fixed  number  in- 

dy  dx 

dependent  of  n  (depending  on  p,  but  p  is  fixed) ;  then 


(12) 


\S^Pdx-Qdy\<AlX''r^. 


It  IS  easy  to  obtain  from  this  the  formula  (6)  ;  since  the 
series  2rJ  is,  in  fact,  convergent,  we  can  choose  n  in  such  a 
way  that  the  remainder  of  this  series  l^n+i^l  is  less  than  -p. 

1:414] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

When  the  number  n  has  been  thus  chosen,  let  us  denote  by  K' 
the  contour  formed  of  the  contour  K  traversed  in  the  direct 
sense  and  the  circumferences  Cf,  Cf ,  •••,  C^f  traversed 
in  the  retrograde  sense ;  we  can  argue  about  K'  as  we  have 
done  about  K  (by  completing  it  if  we  wish  by  rectilinear 
cuts  to  make  it  a  simple  contour) ;  we  shall  obtain 

I  f  Pdx-Qdy   <AI%^a<^ 

that  is,  the  integrals  being  taken  in  the  direct  sense 


S^Pdn^Qdy^XSc^.^P^''-    Q^y 

r=l        r 


<€. 


If  €  is  made  to  tend  to  zero,  n  increases  indefinitely  and 
from  it  we  obtain  the  relation  (8)  from  which  the  relation  (6) 

follows. 

We  deduce  now  from  (6)  Cauchy's  fundamental  theorem ; 
let  X  denote  a  point  within  a  reduced    region  F^,  and  7,^  a 

circle  with  center  x  within  Cp,  and  with  radius  between  — 

and 


,«-!• 


There  exists  such  a  circle  7^,  whatever  the  number  q  (at 
least  after  a  certain  value  of  q).  In  fact  x  being  within  T^,, 
whatever  n  may  be,  an  being  the  aflfix  of  J  a 


x  —  a 


n 


>    -   P 


Consequently,  the  points  Un  for  which 

I 


X  —  a 


n 


< 


,8-1 


are  such  that 

(13) 


2"       "         2«-' 


Let  us  denote  by  n,  the  smallest  value  of  n  after  which 
this  inequality  (13)  is  satisfied ;  all  the  a„'s  inside  the  circle 

1:415: 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

of  center  x  and  radius  -— r  have  indices  greater  or  equal  to 

w^;  the  sum  — 2r„  of  the  radii  of  the  corresponding  circles 

in  Cp  is  then  extremely  small  compared  to  —  Pn^  since  the 
r„'s  are  much  smaller  than  the  corresponding  P„'s  ;  since  this 
sum  is  extremely  small  compared  to  -^^  there  exist  circles 

of  center  x  and  radius  between  — :  and  —  and  which  do 

2^  ^  2* 

not  cut  any  of  the  circles  O^^ ;  a  fortiori  they  do  not  cut  the 
circles  Cn^  whose  centers  are  more  distant  from  x^  for  the 

radii  —of  these  other  circles  are  very  small  compared  with 

P  P 

— ^  and  their  centers  are  further  from  x  than  — p. 

The  circle  y^  being  thus  defined,  let  us  consider  the  func- 


tion 


z  —  X 


within  the  region  contained  between  the  contour  K  and  7,; 
clearly  in  this  region  this  function  is  monogenic ;  we  then 
obtain  the  relation 

the  sum  on  the  right-hand  side  referring  to  the  Ci^^'s  which 
are  contained  between  y^  and  K. 

If  M  denotes  the  maximum  value  of  |  F{z)  \  within  Cp 
the  maximum  value  of  f{z)  on  different  Ci^^'s  is  evidently 
2*"^^i¥ ;  if  ^  -f  I  is  put  in  the  place  of  q,  an  infinity  of  new 
terms  are  introduced  on  the  right-hand  side,  but  it  is  easily 
seen  that  the  lengths  of  the  paths  of  integration  (circum- 
ferences of  the  Ci^^'s  contained  between  7^  and  7^+1)  have  a 

1:416: 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

sum  of  an  order  much  less  than  -^  ;  the  right-hand  side  is 
then  a  convergent  series  and 

lim //(z)  dz=fj(.z)  dz  -XX<^>/(^)  ^^ 

the  sign  S  now  referring  to  all  the  circumferences  CI  which 
limit  C,.  As  for  the  left-hand  side,  it  follows  from  the  con- 
tinuity of  F{z)  at  the  point  x  in  C„  all  the  t,'s  being  interior 
to  C„  that  it  is  equal  to  2  iriF(.x).     The  generalized  Cauchy 

formula  follows 

■r(  \       CF{z)dz_y  C     F{z)dz 

From  this  formula  the  classical  consequences  can  be  de- 
duced and  in  particular  the  fact  that  monogeneity  {existence 
of  the  first  derivative)  within  the  region  C  involves  the  existence 
of  the  derivatives  of  all  orders.     This   formula    (14)   shows 
moreover   that   non-analytic   monogenic   functions   can   be 
put  in  the  form  of  series  whose  terms  are  analytic  functions. 
It  is  natural  then  to  look  for  an  associative  method  of  con- 
tinuation applicable  to  such  sums.     The  problem  is  nothing 
else  than  the  problem  of  divergent  series :   to  each  analytic 
function  corresponds  a  Taylor  development  convergent  in  a 
circle,  but  divergent  outside  this  circle ;    this  development 
is  determined  by  a  knowledge  of  the  values  of  the  derivatives. 
If  a  series  of  analytic  functions  is  indefinitely  differentiable, 
its  derivatives  are  expressed  linearly  by  means  of  the  deriva- 
tions of  the  terms,  and  the  Taylor  series  which  corresponds 
to  these  derivatives  is  a  linear  function  of  the  Taylor  series 
corresponding  to  the  diiferent  terms  of  the  series.     But  if  the 
function  is  not  analytic  at  the  point  where  the  series  is 
developed,  this  Taylor  series  will  be  the  sum  of  series  whose 
radii  of  convergence  decrease  indefinitely  and,  in  the  case 
we  are  studying,  will  have  a  zero  radius  of  convergence. 

1:417:] 


I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

The  problem  of  divergent  series  consists  in  transforming 
such  a  series  into  a  convergent  series  in  such  a  way  that  the 
result  coincides  with  the  analytic  continuation  in  the  case 
where  this  continuation  is  possible.  Thanks  to  the  fine 
researches  of  M.  Mittag-Leffler,  this  problem  has  been 
resolved  for  the  first  time  in  an  entirely  satisfactory  way ; 
it  should  be  observed  that,  if  it  is  desired  to  use  these 
results  for  the  continuation  of  non-analytic  monogenic 
functions,  they  must  be  interpreted  either  by  the  language 
of  divergent  series,  or  by  an  equivalent  language  if  one  prefers 
not  to  speak  of  divergent  series ;  but  in  every  case  by  a  new 
language,  specially  adapted  to  the  real  novelty  of  the  results, 
and  not  by  the  old  language  of  Weierstrassian  analytic 
continuation ;  that  is  the  only  language  which  may  not  be 
used,  since  it  has  an  absolutely  precise  meaning,  which  can- 
not be  modified ;  Weierstrass's  theory  is,  in  some  way,  so 
perfect  that  it  can  only  be  departed  from  by  creating  a  new 
language :  if,  as  M.  Mittag-Leffler  proposed,  Weierstrass's 
language  were  adopted,  M.  Mittag-Leffler's  series  would  be 
only  a  simplified  method  of  calculation  containing  nothing 
more  from  the  theoretical  point  of  view  than  Weierstrass's 
theory  contains. 

III.     CONTINUATION    BY   SERIES    (M) 

In  order  to  study  continuation  by  M.  Mittag-Leffler's 
series,  or  series  (M),  we  suppose  that  the  point  is  interior 
to  a  reduced  region  F^,  of  order  equal  to  2  with  respect  to 
Fj,  (the  circles  of  exclusion  are  defined  by  numbers  pj, 
equal  to  Vp„) ;  evidently  then  an  infinity  of  straight  lines 
issuing  from  the  point  x  can  be  drawn  interior  to  Fp. 
More  precisely,  if  x  belongs  to  F\  within  every  given  angle 
having  its  vertex  a:,  a  straight  line  interior  to  F^,/,  of  con- 
venient index,  can  be  found ;    this  index  can  increase  in- 

C4183 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

definitely  as  the  angle  tends  to  zero,  but  is  determinate 
when  the  angle  is  given  (this  follows  from  the  fact  that  the 
sum  of  the  angles  subtended  at  x  by  the  circles  which  limit 
F  /  is  less  than  twice  the   sum   of   the   convergent   series 

"^fpjtiBA  and  is  consequently  as   small   as  we   please  if 

p'  is  sufficiently  large).  We  shall  suppose,  so  as  not  to  com- 
plicate our  notation,  that  p  has  been  taken  equal  to  p'  in  the 
preceding  argument  (the  point  x  interior  to  Fp  is  a  fortiori 

interior  to  F^^  li  p'  >  p). 

We  develop  F{z)  in  a  series  on  one  of  the  straight  lines 
which  we  are  about  to  define,  interior  to  F^.  Each  of  the 
terms  of  the  right-hand  side  of  (14)  is  an  analytic  function  on 
this  straight  line  and  can  therefore  be  developed  in  a  series 
of  Mittag-Leffler  or  (M)  polynomials ;  it  is  enough  to  show 
that  the  multiple  series  formed  of  the  set  of  these  series  is 
absolutely  convergent,  in  order  to  show  that  it  represents 

2  iriFiz). 

This  series  is  then  formed  by  means  of  the  derivatives  of 
F{z)  at  the  point  x  (these  derivatives  exist,  as  we  have 
remarked,  according  to  (14)  for  every  displacement  on  the 
straight  line  and  in  fp),  in  the  same  way  as  the  (M)  develop- 
ment of  an  analytic  function  is  formed  by  means  of  the 
derivatives  of  that  function;    we  assume,  to  save  writing, 

that  X  =0. 

I  remind  the  reader  of  the  properties  of  (Af)  developments 
which  I  have  demonstrated  in  my  memoir  on  series  of  poly- 
nomials and  rational  fractions  ("Acta  Matematica,"  I, 
xxiv).     One  finds  that 

(IS)  ^=2:cnW, 

G„(2;)'s  being  polynomials  which  it  is  useless  to  write  again 
and  the  series  2  \  Gn{z)  \  being  convergent  in  the  '  star.'     A 

[4193 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

region  S  (R,  p)  is  defined  as  follows  :  R  being  >  i  and  p  <  i, 
we  consider  the  circle  of  center  o  and  radius  R,  the  circle  of 
center  i  and  radius  p  and  the  tangents  to  this  last  circle 
from  o,  the  points  of  contact  being  M  and  N;  the  region 
S(R,  p)  is  bounded  by  the  arc  MN  less  than  tt,  the  continua- 
tions MM'  and  A^A^'  of  OM  and  ON  as  far  as  the  circum- 
ference of  radius  R  and  the  arc  M'N'  greater  than  tt.     In  this 

32  i?     . 

region,  puttmg  ^ =a  , 

(16)  ^  X  I  Gr.(z)  1  <  R'"' 

Consider  an  integral  along  one  of  the  circumferences  C^^^ 


of  radius 


(17) 


n 


Lp)  Md'^ 


We  develop  it  on  a  straight  line  interior  to  F,,,  that  is  outside 
the  circumference  having  the  same  center  ^„  as  Cn^  and  of 

radius    —  •      The    radius    —    being    very    small    compared 

2r  2 

with  p„,  we  shall  commit  no  appreciable  error  by  replacing 
this  integral  by  the  majorant  function  —,  denoting  by  M 

the  maximum  of  |  ^(2;)  |  in  Cp,  27rr„  being  the  length  of  the 
path  of  integration  (we  suppress  the  factors  2^  which  have 
no  influence  since  p  is  fixed).     If  one  puts  x^a^x^ 

(  o^  Mr„       Mr^      i 


ft 


dn       I  —  X 


f  • 


If  the  point  x  is  inside  the  region  S{R,p)  defined  by  the 
circle  of  radius  —  and  center  Jn  and  by  a  circle  of  radius  >  i 

(2  for  example)  which  contains  within  it  all  the  regions  we 

are  considering,  the  point  y  =  —  will    be   within   the  region 

<3„ 


1:420] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


9n 


a 


n 


a 


n 


,  and  by  developing ^  we  get  the  inequality 


I  —X 


S!G„(.')i<[^J 

putting  X=^;    since   |^„|  is  greater  than  p„  we   can  write 

The  development  (AT)  of  (17)  is,  according  to  (18),  when  all 
the  terms  are  replaced  by  their  moduli,  less  than 


But  according  to  (2) 


MrnyK^ 


>e 


0  s 


'  n 


a 


being 


and  if  n  is  large  enough  -^  >  X^  since  X  =  -^  and  so 

^  Pn  Pn 

>  Pn, 

Mr^,\''<\M\''e-^\ 

This  converges  very  rapidly  to  zero  when  n,  and  consequently 
X,  increases  indefinitely.  The  absolute  convergence  of  the 
(M)  series  is  then  demonstrated. 

Now  consider  two  points  Xi  and  X2  belonging  to  T' ;  we 
can  construct  two  angles  Ji  and  J2  with  vertices  at  Xi  and  X2, 
and  such  that  every  half-straight  line  Di  within  Ai  meets 
every  half-straight  line  Do  within  J2  at  a  point  Xs  within  the 
total  reeion  considered.  We  can  choose  Di  and  D2  in  such 
a  way  that  these  two  straight  lines  belong  to  the  same  T^ 
{p  being  chosen  large  enough,  but  afterwards  remaining 
fixed).  It  will  then  be  possible  to  calculate  the  function  at 
X2  by  means  of  its  values  and  the  values  of  its  derivatives  at 
Xi,  by  forming  only  two  (M)  developments,  one  with  the 

[4213 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

origin  Xi  and  the  other  with  the  origin  x^.  If  the  function 
is  zero  at  x,  as  well  as  all  its  derivatives,  these  (Af)  develop- 
ments are  identically  zero  and  the  function  is  zero  at  ^2. 
From  what  has  been  said  further  back  it  can  be  concluded 
that  if  a  monogenic  function  is  zero  at  every  point  of  an  arc, 
however  small  (at  all  points  of  this  arc  interior  to  C),  when 
there  exists  on  this  arc  at  least  one  point  interior  to  Tj,  a 
limit  of  points  interior  to  T^,  the  function  being  zero  at  all 
these  points  is  zero,  as  well  as  its  derivatives,  at  one  point 
of  r^  at  least,  and  consequently  identically  zero  in  T^ 
(whatever  p  may  be)  and  identically  zero  in  C.  These  new 
monogenic  functions  possess  then  the  fundamental  property 
of  analytic  functions. 


IV.     THE    LOGARITHMIC    POTENTIAL 

In  the  preceding  work  we  have  considered  singular  isolated 
points,  corresponding  in  the  physical  point  of  view  to  the 
hypothesis  of  an  infinite  density  at  certain  points ;  a  state- 
ment can  easily  be  given  in  which  the  density  is  everywhere 

finite. 

Consider  a  regular  uniform  analytic  function  zero  at 
infinity.  If  S  is  a  circle  such  that  all  the  singular  points  of 
the  function  are  inside  2,  if  f  is  any  point  outside  2, 

the  integration  being  taken  in  the  direct  sense. 

Let  2i  and  ^2  be  two  concentric  circles  outside  2,  let  a 
be  the  center  of  these  circles,  pi  and  p2  their  radii. 

Evidently,  if  p  is  contained  between  pi  and  p2. 


ia 


[422] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

If  we  multiply  this  equality  by  {p2-pT(p-PiT  ^nd  inte- 
grate between  the  Umits  pi  and  P2,  the  expression  becomes 

F{of\p2-pnp-piy^p 

^j_  r-Fja + pen  (p.  -PTJP-  pXpe'^dad^ 
2  7r*^° 

Put 

£\p2-Pnp-pd''dr  =  ^H 
a+pe^''  =  x-\-iy. 


i-a-p 


Then 


rrh  =  -L  C(    F(x+iy)(p2-Pnp-Piy/^^xdy 


or  puttmg 


^—x  —  ty 


the  region  of  integration  being  the  ring  contained  between 

the  circles  Ci  and  C2. 

We  shall  define  the  function  (l>{x,  y)  outside  this  ring  by 
giving  it  the  value  zero ;  the  whole  plane  can  then  be  taken 
as  the  region  of  integration.  The  function  <l>(x,  y)  is  bounded 
and  continuous  in  the  whole  plane ;  its  derivatives  are  also 
bounded,  at  least  as  far  as  order  m  on  Ci  and  as  far  as  order 
n  on  C2 ;  by  an  artifice  analogous  to  that  which  we  are  about 
to  employ,  it  would  be  easy  to  arrange  matters  so  that  all 
the  derivatives  would  be  continuous ;  in  general  it  is  enough 
to  know  that  the  derivatives  are  continuous  as  far  as  some 
order,  fixed  beforehand. 

If  the  function  F(z)  has  a  singular  point  a,  pi  can  be  made 
to  tend  to  zero  and  if,  further,  the  product  p^F{z)  remains 
finite  for  z  =  a,  the  formula  holds  for  pi  =  o ;  if  this  product 
does  not  remain  finite,  in  the  formula  we  replace  (p  -  piT 

1:423] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


P 


by  e  ^  or  e~^  etc.  Further,  in  the  case  of  a  unique 
singular  point,  the  circle  Ci  can  be  drawn  with  a  radius  as 
small  as  we  please,  after  the  circle  C\  has  been  reduced  to 
zero. 

It  is  easy  to  deduce  from  this  that  every  regular  analytic 
uniform  function,  zero  at  infinity,  can  be  represented  in  every 
region  D  interior  to  Its  region  of  existence  W^  and  approach- 
ing W  as  nearly  as  we  wish,  by  an  expression  of  the  form 

(20)  /-(f)  =e(l,  V)  =  /"/"  ^fc  y^dxdy 

the  function  <^(a:,  y)  being  bounded  and,  further,  zero  at  all 
points  of  D  (this  hypothesis  involves  the  fact  that  </)(a:,  y)  is 
zero  at  infinity,  since  the  point  at  infinity  belongs  to  D), 

Inversely  every  expression  of  the  form  (20)  in  which 
0(a:,  y)  is  a  bounded  function,  zero  at  infinity,  and  contin- 
uous in  the  whole  plane,  as  w^ell  as  its  derivatives  (at  least 
up  to  order  w),  represents  a  function  which  is  monogenic  at 
every  point  where  0(a;,  y)  is  zero;  for  by  a  simple  calcu- 

If  the  points  where  0(;c,  y)  is  zero  form  a  W  region,  the  theory 
of  analytic  functions  shows  us  that  the  function  ^(f,  r?)  is 
determined  at  every  point  of  W  by  the  knowledge  of  its 
values  in  the  neighborhood  of  any  particular  point  of  W. 
The  problem  of  the  general  determination  of  the  region  of 
existence  of  monogenic  functions  can  then  be  set  as  follows  : 
to  find  the  conditions  which  0(a:,  y)  should  satisfy  in  order 
that  this  fundamental  property  of  0(f,  r;)  should  hold ;  that 
is,  that  the  knowledge  of  this  function  on  an  arc  of  a  curve 
where  it  is  monogenic  allows  the  calculation  of  its  value  in 
the  whole  region  of  monogeneity. 

1:424] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Consider,  for  example,  the  series  of  rational  fractions  with 
simple  poles.  Denoting  by  C^  a  circle  with  center  a  and 
radius  p,  and  taking  a  point  f  outside  this  circle  for  which 
z  -  a\  =  r,       j^  ^r  r  T^{p-r)  dxdy  ^ 

When  the  point  f  is  inside  the  circle  C^,    the  integral  is 


easily  calculated;   putting  ^— ^  =X  its  value  is 


f-^ 


The  function 


dxdy 


7rp^     ^+iv-x-iy 


Is  then  bounded  in  the  whole  plane;  outside  Ca  it  is  mono- 
genic and  coincides  with  the  analytic  function 


r-^ 


Evidently  an  infinity  of  functions  ^„(|,  v)  can  be  defined 
in  a  similar  way,  such  that  the  equation 


t-^n 


holds  for  every  point  ^  =  ^  +  iv  outside  the  circle  Cn  with 
center  Un  and  radius  p„,  these  functions  being  moreover 
bounded  and  continuous  in  the  whole  plane  ;  if  the  |  ^„  |'s  are 
bounded  and  if  the  coefficients  An  are  such  that  the  series 


X 


A. 


pi 


is  convergent,  the  series 

will  be  absolutely  and  uniformly  convergent  in  the  whole 
plane,  and  will  be  represented  by  an  integral  of  the  form 


(21) 


»/-«  */-ao      PJ^ir)  —  X—lV 


1:4253 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

the  function  </)(a:,  y)  being  the  sum  of  a  series  everywhere 
convergent  whose  respective  terms  are  zero  outside  various 
circles  C„;  this  function  <l>{x,  y)  is  then  zero  at  all  points 
exterior  to  all  these  circles  and  the  function  ^(|,  rj)  is  mon- 
ogenic at  these  points.  If  the  radii  pn  are  replaced  by 
6p„,  €  being  as  small  as  we  please,  the  function  (t>{x,  y)  is 
zero  in  a  more  and  more  extended  region;  it  remains 
bounded,  but  its  bound  increases  indefinitely  as  e  tends  to 
zero.  We  are  thus  led  to  consider  a  priori  a  function  such 
as  (21)  and  to  study  it  in  the  region  C  where  0(a:,  y)  is  zero. 
It  is  natural  to  suppose  the  region  C  to  be  simply  connected  ; 
we  limit  ourselves  to  the  case  where  this  region  C  consists  of 
JV  regions  (these  regions  may  reduce  to  a  zero  as  a  limiting 
case)  and  of  a  finite  or  infinite  number  of  straight  lines  A, 
in  such  a  way  that  any  two  points  can  be  reunited  by  a  polyg- 
onal line  with  a  finite  number  of  sides. 

An  important  idea  is  then  that  of  the  order  of  infinity  of 
the  function  </)(a:,  y)  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  straight  lines. 
By  a  calculation  analogous  to  that  which  has  just  been 
developed,  the  convergence  of  the  (M)  developments  can  be 
shown  by  making  the  hypothesis  that  </)(^,  y)  is  not  only  zero 
upon  the  straight  lines  (which  is  the  necessary  condition 
of  monogeneity)  but  tends  very  rapidly  to  zero  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  each  straight  line.  More  precisely,  if  o-  denotes 
the  distance  of  the  point  {x,  y)  from  the  straight  line  A 
considered,  it  is  assumed  that  the  product 

e'^(f>{x,  y) 

tends  uniformly  to  zero  as  a-  tends  to  zero.  By  means  of  this 
hypothesis,  it  can  be  affirmed  that  the  function  d{^,  77)  is 
determined  in  the  whole  region  of  its  existence  by  the  knowl- 
edge of  its  values  at  any  point  of  this  region.  This  hy- 
pothesis contains  as  a  special  case  the  condition  satisfied 

n426] 


m 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

by  analytic  functions  in  fV  regions,  for  if  a  straight  line  is 
within  fF,  the  function  (t>(x,  y)  is  identically  zero  at  all 
points  whose  distances  from  the  straight  line  are  less  than 
a  number  o-,  chosen  conveniently. 

The  region  C  can  be  reduced  to  the  real  axis ;  that  is  the 
case  of  the  function 


+00        x»+00 


^+00      x»+aO 


'^dx  dy 


{x^-^y''){^-x-iy) 

The  Taylor  development 

^(?)  =  ^(lo)  +  (?-?o)^'(^o)+- 

diverges  for  any  value  of  fo  but  is  summable  (M),  whatever 
fo  may  be,  for  every  value  of  |,  its  sum  being  equal  to  the 
function  (9(?).  The  function  ^(|)  will  be  called  quasi- 
analytic. 

Calculations  of  double  integrals  of  form  (21)  lead  easily 
to  expressions  of  the  same  form ;  similarly  in  differentiating, 
transforming  the  double  integral  by  integration  by  parts, 
it  is  only  necessary  to  assume  the  existence  of  the  derivatives 
of  </)(;c,  y)  exactly  to  the  order  of  the  derivatives  of  ^(f,  r?) 
which  it  is  desired  to  calculate.  To  calculate  the  product, 
if  we  put 

(.3)  ^^(^'')=£X.^^^T^'' 

the  product  becomes 

,+co  ^-f«  /.+C0  f^^ ^{x,y)4>i{xuyi)dxdyd^cidyi 


^+00       y»+«     ^+00      ••-ra 
*^-oo    *^-oo     *^— 00     •^-00 


or  smce 


(f-2)(r-zi) 
I       I 


(f-2;)(r-2;i)     z-zAr-z     r-zi' 

[427] 


if  we  put 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


+»  /'+"  4,{xi,  yi)dxidyi 


—00 


+«      y^+so 


z  —  Zi 


</>i('^i,  yO^-yi^yi 


—00      ^  -x> 


Z  — Zi 


(24) 

We  can  then  put  in  the  form  of  a  double  integral  (24) 
every  polynomial  P  in  terms  of  one  or  more  functions  of 
(9(J,  7])  and  their  derivatives;  if  the  regions  of  existence 
have  a  simply  connected  common  region  the  differential 
equation  obtained  by  equating  P  to  zero  cannot  be  satisfied 
in  any  portion  of  this  region  without  being  satisfied  in  the 
whole  region  C. 

V.     CONCLUSION 

The  results  we  are  establishing  suppress  the  absolutely 
sharp  demarcation  established  by  Weierstrass's  theory 
between  real  analytic  functions  and  real  non-analytic  func- 
tions. I  do  not  wish  to  develop  the  consequences  of  this 
fact  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  theory  of  functions ;  I 
prefer  to  insist  a  little  on  its  importance  from  the  point  of 
view  of  the  relations  between  mathematics  and  physics. 
It  is  a  necessary  postulate  in  the  application  of  mathematics 
to  experimental  sciences,  that  sufficiently  slight  variations 
in  the  data  ought  not  to  influence  the  results  appreciably ; 
for,  if  it  were  not  so,  since  the  experimental  data  are  never 
known  with  vigorous  precision,  one  could  not  foresee  any 
phenomenon.  But  certain  mathematical  properties  are 
at  least  apparently  discontinuous,  depending  for  example  on 

[4283 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

the  fact  that  some  number  is  rational  or  irrational, 
the  solutions  of  the  equation 


Thus 


d'y 


-  +  m^y  =  cos  nx 

are  of  a  different  nature  according  as  the  ratio  ^  is  commen- 
surable  or  incommensurable.     Nevertheless,  in  this  case,  if 

^  varies  continuously,  the  solution  y  varies  very  little  in  an 

n 

interval  of  variation  of  x  large  compared  with  the  length  ot 

the  periods.     It  is  not  always  thus,  certainly,  but  the  cases 

in  which  there  is  no  continuity  have  been  little  studied ;  the 

equation 

can  be  given  as  an  example  in  which  the  solutions  vary  dis- 
continuously  as  X  becomes  equal  to  zero ;  but  this  equation 
does  not  come  under  the  Hamiltonian  type. 

It  is  important  to  know  whether  the  properties  of  harmonic 
functions  (that  is,  of  potentials)  vary  continuously  when  the 
definition  of  the  functions  itself  varies  continuously.  This 
has  no  place  in  Weierstrass's  theory ;  the  introduction^  of 
quasi-analytic  functions  restores  continuity ;  a  distribution 
of  attracting  masses  infinitely  near  to  Ox  leads,  if  the  density 
is  sufficiently  slight  in  the  neighborhood  of  Ox,  to  properties 
of  the  potential  on  Ox  which  are  not  dissimilar  from  the  case 
where  the  density  is  zero  in  the  neighborhood  of  Ox. 

Emile  Borel. 


1:4293 


'   #1!^  f'  "     -■■  -"^ 


THE  BREVIARY  OF  ESTHETIC ^ 


I 


"WHAT  IS  ART?" 


IN  reply  to  the  question,  *'What  is  art?",  it  might  be  said 
jocosely  (but  this  would  not  be  a  bad  joke)  that  art  is 
what  everybody  knows  it  to  be.    And  indeed,  if  it  were  not 
to  some  extent  known  what  it  is,  it  would  be  impossible  even 
to  ask  that  question,  for  every  question  implies  a  certain 
knowledge  of  what  is  asked  about,  designated  in  the  ques- 
tion and  therefore  known  and  qualified.    A  proof  of  this  is 
to  be  found  in  the  fact  that  we  often  hear  expressed  just  and 
profound  ideas  in  relation  to  art  by  those  who  make  no  pro- 
fession of  philosophy  or  of  theory,  by  laymen,  by  artists 
who  do  not  like  to  reason,  by  the  ingenuous,  and  even  by  the 
common  people:  these  ideas  are  sometimes  implicit  in  judg- 
ments concerning  particular  works  of  art,  but  at  others  as- 
sume altogether  the  form  of  aphorisms  and  of  definitions. 
Thus  it  happens  that  there  arises  the  belief  in  the  possibility 
of  making  blush,  at  will,  any  proud  philosopher  who  should 
believe  himself  to  have  '^discovered'*  the  nature  of  art,  by 
placing  before  his  eyes  or  making  ring  in  his  ears  proposi- 
tions taken  from  the  most  superficial  books  or  phrases  of  the 
most  ordinary  conversation,  and  shewing  that  they  already 
most  clearly  contained  his  vaunted  discovery. 

And  in  this  case  the  philosopher  would  have  good  reason 
to  blush— that  is,  had  he  ever  nourished  the  illusion  of  intro- 
ducing into  universal  human  consciousness,  by  means  of  his 

1  A  monograph  prepared  for  the  inauguration  of  the  Rice  Institute,  by  Bene- 
detto Croce,  Senator  of  the  Kingdom  of  Italy,  Member  of  several  Royal 
Commissions,  Editor  of  "La  Critlca."  Translated  from  the  Italian  by  Doug- 
las Ainslie,  B.A.  Oxon.,  of  The  Athenaeum,  London,  England. 

C430] 


4 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

doctrines,  something  altogether  original,  something  extra- 
neous to  this  consciousness,  the  revelation  of  an  altogether 
new  world.     But  he  does  not  blush,  and  continues  upon 
his  way,  for  he  is  not  ignorant  that  the  question  as  to  what 
is  art  (as  indeed  every  philosophical  question  as  to  the  nature 
of  the  real,  or  in  general  every  question  of  knowledge) ,  even 
if  by  Its  use  of  language  it  seem  to  assume  the  aspect  of  a 
general  and  total  problem,  which  it  is  claimed  to  solve  for 
the  first  and  last  time,  has  always,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  a  cir- 
cumscribed meaning,  referable  to  the  particular  difficulties 
that  assume  vitality  at  a  determined  moment  in  the  history 
of  thought.    Certainly,  truth  does  walk  the  streets,  like  the 
esprit  of  the  well-known  French  proverb,  or  like  metaphor, 
''queen  of  tropes''  according  to  rhetoricians,  which  Mon- 
taigne discovered  in  the  babil  of  his  chambriere.     But  the 
metaphor  used  by  the  maid  is  the  solution  of  a  problem  of 
expression  proper  to  the  feelings  that  affect  the  maid  at  that 
moment;  and  the  obvious  affirmations  that  by  accident  or  in- 
tent one  hears  every  day  as  to  the  nature  of  art,  are  solu^ 
tions  of  logical  problems,  as  they  present  themselves  to  this 
or  that  individual,  who  is  not  a  philosopher  by  profession, 
and  yet  as  man  is  also  to  some  extent  a  philosopher.    And  as 
the  maid's  metaphor  usually  expresses  but  a  small  and  vul- 
gar world  of  feeling  compared  with  that  of  the  poet,  so  the 
obvious  affirmation  of  one  who  is  not  a  philosopher  solves  a 
problem  small  by  comparison  with  that  which  occupies  the 
philosopher.     The  answer  as  to  what  is  art  may  appear 
similar  in  both  cases,  but  is  different  in  both  cases  owing 
to  the  different  degree  of  richness  of  its  intimate  content; 
because  the  answer  of  the  philosopher  worthy  of  the  name 
has  neither  more  nor  less  than  the  task  of  solving  in  an 
adequate  manner  all  the  problems  as  to  the  nature  of  art  that 
have  arisen  down  to  that  moment  in  the  course  of  history; 

[430 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

whereas  that  of  the  layman,  since  it  revolves  in  a  far  nar- 
rower space,  shews  itself  to  be  impotent  outside  those  limits. 
Actual  proof  of  this  is  also  to  be  found  in  the  force  of  the 
eternal  Socratic  method,  in  the  facility  with  which  the 
learned,  by  pressing  home  their  questions,  leave  those  with- 
out learning  in  open-mouthed  confusion,  though  these  had 
nevertheless  begun  by  speaking  well;  but  now  finding  them- 
selves, in  the  course  of  the  inquiry,  in  danger  of  losing  what 
small  knowledge  they  possessed,  they  have  no  resource  but 
to  retire  into  their  shell,  declaring  that  they  do  not  like 
"subtleties." 

The  philosopher's  pride  is  solely  based  therefore  upon 
the  greater  intensity  of  his  questions  and  answers;  a  pride 
not  unaccompanied  with  modesty— that  is,  with  the  con- 
sciousness that  if  his  sphere  be  wider,  or  the  largest  pos- 
sible, at  a  determined  moment,  yet  it  is  limited  by  the  history 
of  that  moment,  and  cannot  pretend  to  a  value  of  totality, 
or  what  is  called  a  definite  solution.  The  ulterior  life  of  the 
spirit,  renewing  and  multiplying  problems,  does  not  so  much 
falsify,  as  render  inadequate  preceding  solutions,  part  of 
them  falling  among  the  number  of  those  truths  that  are  un- 
derstood, and  part  needing  to  be  again  taken  up  and  inte- 
grated. A  system  is  a  house,  which,  as  soon  as  It  has  been 
built  and  decorated,  has  need  of  continuous  labour,  more  or 
less  energetic,  in  order  to  keep  it  in  repair  (subject  as  It  is  to 
the  corrosive  action  of  the  elements)  ;  and  at  a  certain  mo- 
ment there  is  no  longer  any  use  in  restoring  and  propping 
up  the  system,  we  must  demolish  and  reconstruct  it  from  top 
to  bottom.  But  with  this  capital  difference :  that  in  the  work 
of  thought,  the  perpetually  new  house  is  perpetually  main- 
tained by  the  old  one,  which  persists  in  it,  almost  by  an  act 
of  magic.  As  we  know,  those  superficial  or  Ingenuous  souls 
that  are  ignorant  of  this  magic  are  terrified  at  it;  so  much  so, 

[1432] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

that  one  of  their  tiresome  refrains  against  philosophy  Is  that 
it  continually  undoes  its  work,  and  that  one  philosopher 
contradicts  another:  as  though  man  did  not  always  make 
and  unmake  his  houses,  and  as  though  the  architect  that  fol- 
lows did  not  always  contradict  the  architect  that  precedes; 
and  as  though  It  were  possible  to  draw  the  conclusion  from 
this  making  and  unmaking  of  houses  and  from  this  contra- 
diction  among  architects,  that  it  is  useless  to  make  houses! 

The  answers  of  the  philosopher,  though  they  have  the  ad- 
vantage of  greater  intensity,  also  carry  with  them  the  dan- 
gers of  greater  error,  and  are  often  vitiated  by  a  sort  of  lack 
of  good  sense,  which  has  an  aristocratic  character,  in  so 
far  as  it  belongs  to  a  superior  sphere  of  culture,  and  even 
when  meriting  reproof,  is  the  object  not  only  of  disdain  and 
derision,  but  also  of  secret  envy  and  admiration.    This  is  the 
foundation  of  the  contrast,  that  many  delight  to  Illustrate, 
between  the  mental  equilibrium  of  ordinary  people  and  the 
extravagances  of  philosophers;  since,  for  example,  it  is  clear 
that  no  man  of  good  sense  would  have  said  that  art  is  a 
reflexion   of   the   sexual   instinct,    or   that   It   is   something 
maleficent  and  deserves  to  be  banned  from  well-ordered  re- 
publics.    These   absurdities  have,   however,   been  uttered 
by   philosophers    and    even   by   great   philosophers.      But 
the  innocence  of  the  man  of  common  sense  Is  poverty,  the 
innocence  of  the  savage;  and  though  there  have  often  been 
sighs  for  the  life  of  the  savage,  and  a  remedy  has  been  called 
for  to  rescue  good  sense  from  philosophies,  it  remains  a 
fact  that  the  spirit,  in  its  development,  courageously  affronts 
the  dangers  of  civilisation  and  the  momentary  loss  of  good 
sense.    The  researches  of  the  philosopher  in  relation  to  art 
must  tread  the  paths  of  error  In  order  to  find  the  path  of 
truth,  which  does  not  differ  from,  but  is,  those  very  paths  of 
error  which  contain  a  clue  to  the  labyrinth. 

[433] 


<< 


^w 


11 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

The  close  connection  of  error  and  truth  arises  from  the 
fact  that  a  complete  and  total  error  is  inconceivable,  and, 
since  it  is  inconceivable,  does  not  exist.  Error  speaks  with 
two  voices,  one  of  which  affirms  the  false,  but  the  other 
denies  it;  it  is  a  colliding  of  yes  and  no,  which  is  called  con- 
tradiction. Therefore,  when  we  descend  from  general  con- 
siderations to  the  examination  of  a  theory  that  has  been 
condemned  as  erroneous  in  its  definite  particulars,  we  find 
the  cure  in  the  theory  itself— that  is,  the  true  theory,  which 
grows  out  of  the  soil  of  error.  Thus  it  happens  that  those 
very  people  who  claim  to  reduce  art  to  the  sexual  instinct, 
in  order  to  demonstrate  their  thesis  have  recourse  to  argu- 
ments and  meditations  w^hich,  instead  of  uniting,  separate 
art  from  that  instinct;  or  that  he  who  would  expel  poetry 
from  the  well-constituted  republic,  shudders  in  so  doing,  and 
himself  creates  a  new  and  sublime  poetry.  There  have  been 
historical  periods  in  which  the  most  crude  and  perverted 
doctrines  of  art  have  dominated;  yet  this  did  not  prevent 
the  habitual  and  secure  separation  of  the  beautiful  from  the 
ugly  at  those  periods,  nor  the  very  subtle  discussion  of  the 
theme  when  the  abstract  theory  was  forgotten  and  particular 
cases  were  studied.  Error  is  always  condemned,  not  by  the 
mouth  of  the  judge,  but  ex  ore  siio. 

Owing  to  this  close  connection  with  error,  the  affirmation 
of  the  truth  is  always  a  process  of  strife,  by  means  of  which 
it  keeps  freeing  itself  in  error  from  error;  whence  arises 
another  pious  but  impossible  desire,  namely,  that  which  de- 
mands that  truth  should  be  directly  exposed,  without  discus- 
sion or  polemic;  that  it  should  be  permitted  to  proceed 
majestically  alone  upon  its  way:  as  if  this  stage  parade  were 
the  symbol  suited  to  truth,  which  is  thought  itself,  and,  as 
thought,  ever  active  and  in  labour.  Indeed,  nobody  succeeds 
in  exposing  a  truth,  save  by  criticising  the  different  solutions 

[434] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

of  the  problem  with  which  it  is  connected;  and  there  is  no 
philosophical  treatise,  however  weak,  no  little  scholastic 
manual  or  academic  dissertation,  which  does  not  collect  at 
its  beginning  or  contain  in  its  body  a  review  of  opinions,  his- 
torically given  or  ideally  possible,  which  it  wishes  to  oppose 
or  to  correct.  This  fact,  though  frequently  realised  in  a 
capricious  and  disorderly  manner,  just  expresses  the  legiti- 
mate desire  to  pass  in  review  all  the  solutions  that  have  been 
attempted  in  history  or  are  possible  of  achievement  in  idea 
(that  is,  at  the  present  moment,  though  always  in  history), 
in  such  a  way  that  the  new  solution  shall  include  in  itself  all 
the  preceding  labour  of  the  human  spirit. 

But  this  demand  is  a  logical  demand,  and  as  such  intrinsic 
to  every  true  thought  and  inseparable  from  it;  and  we  must 
not  confound  it  with  a  definite  literary  form  of  exposi- 
tion, in  order  that  we  may  not  fall  into  the  pedantry  for 
which  the  scholastics  of  the  Middle  Ages  and  the  dialec- 
ticians of  the  school  of  Hegel  in  the  nineteenth  century  be- 
came celebrated,  which  is  very  closely  connected  with 
the  formalistic  superstition,  and  represents  a  belief  in  the 
marvellous  virtue  of  a  certain  sort  of  extrinsic  and  mechan- 
ical philosophical  exposition.  We  must,  in  short,  understand 
it  in  a  substantial,  not  in  an  accidental  sense,  respecting  the 
spirit,  not  the  letter,  and  proceed  with  freedom  in  the  ex- 
position of  our  own  thought,  according  to  time,  place,  and 
person.  Thus,  in  these  rapid  lectures  intended  to  provide  as 
it  were  a  guide  to  the  right  way  of  thinking  out  problems  of 
art,  I  shall  carefully  refrain  from  narrating  (as  I  have  done 
elsewhere)  the  whole  process  of  liberation  from  erroneous 
conceptions  of  art,  mounting  upwards  from  the  poorest  to 
the  richest;  and  I  shall  cast  far  away,  not  from  myself,  but 
from  my  readers,  a  part  of  the  baggage  with  which  they  will 
charge  themselves  when,  prompted  thereto  by  the  sight  of 

[435] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

the  country  passed  over  in  our  bird's  flight,  they  shall  set 
themselves  to  accomplish  more  particular  voyages  in  this  or 
that  part  of  it,  or  to  cross  it  again  from  end  to  end. 

However,  connecting  the  question  which  has  given  occa- 
sion to  this  indispensable  prologue  (indispensable  for  the 
purpose  of  removing  from  my  discourse  every  appearance 
of  pretentiousness,  and  also  all  blemish  of  inutility),— the 
question  as  to  what  is  art,  —  I  will  say  at  once,  in  the  simplest  ^'^ 
manner,  that  art  is  vision  or  intuition.  The  artist  produces 
an  image  or  a  phantasm;  and  he  who  enjoys  art  turns  his 
gaze  upon  the  point  to  which  the  artist  has  pointed,  looks 
through  the  chink  which  he  has  opened,  and  reproduces  that 
image  in  himself.  ^'Intuition,"  ^Vision,''  "contemplation,'* 
"imagination,"  "fancy,"  "figurations,"  "representations," 
and  so  on,  are  words  continually  recurring,  like  synonyms, 
when  discoursing  upon  art,  and  they  all  lead  the  mind  to  the 
same  conceptual  sphere  which  indicates  general  agreement. 

But  this  reply,  that  art  is  intuition,  obtains  its  force  and 
meaning  from  all  that  it  implicitly  denies  and  from  which  it 
distinguishes  art.  What  negations  are  implicit  in  it?  I  shall 
indicate  the  principal,  or  at  least  those  that  are  the  most 
important  for  us  at  this  present  moment  of  our  culture. 

It  denies,  above  all,  that  art  is  a  physical  fact:  for  exam- 
ple, certain  determined  colours,  or  relations  of  colours; 
certain  definite  forms  of  bodies;  certain  definite  sounds, 
or  relations  of  sounds;  certain  phenomena  of  heat  or  of  elec- 
tricity—in short,  whatsoever  be  designated  as  "physical." 
The  inclination  toward  this  error  of  physicising  art  is  al- 
ready present  in  ordinary  thought,  and  as  children  who 
touch  the  soap-bubble  and  would  wish  to  touch  the  rainbow, 
so  the  human  spirit,  admiring  beautiful  things,  hastens  spon- 
taneously to  trace  out  the  reasons  for  them  in  external  na- 
ture,  and   proves   that   it   must   think,   or  believes   that   it 

[436] 


« 


ii| 


^■€ 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

should  think,  certain  colours  beautiful  and  certain  other  col- 
ours ugly,  certain  forms  beautiful  and  certain  other  forms 
ugly.     But  this  attempt  has  been  carried  out  intentionally 
and  with  method  on  several  occasions  in  the  history  of 
thought:  from  the  "canons"  which  the  Greek  theoreticians 
and  artists  fixed  for  the  beauty  of  bodies,  through  the  specu- 
lations as  to  the  geometrical  and  numerical   relations  of 
figures  and  sounds,  down  to  the  researches  of  the  aesthe- 
ticians  of  the  nineteenth  century  (Fechner,  for  example), 
and  to  the  "communications"  presented  in  our  day  by  the 
inexpert,  at  philosophical,  psychological,  and  natural  science 
congresses,  concerning  the  relations  of  physical  phenomena 
with  art.     And  If  It  be  asked  why  art  cannot  be  a  physical 
fact,  we  must  reply,  in  the  first  place,  that  physical  facts  do 
not  possess  reality,  and  that  art,  to  which  so  many  devote 
their  whole  lives  and  which  fills  all  with  a  divine  joy,  is 
supremely  real;  thus  it  cannot  be  a  physical  fact,  which  Is 
something  unreal.     This  sounds  at  first  paradoxical,   for 
nothing  seems  more  solid  and  secure  to  the  ordinary  man 
than  the  physical  world;  but  we,  in  the  seat  of  truth,  must 
not  abstain  from  the  good  reason  and  substitute  for  it  one 
less  good,  solely  because  the  first  should  have  the  appear- 
ance of  a  lie;  and  besides.  In  order  to  surpass  what  of 
strange  and  difficult  may  be  contained  In  that  truth,  to  be- 
come at  home  with  It,  we  may  take  Into  consideration  the 
fact  that  the  demonstration  of  the  unreality  of  the  physical 
world  has  not  only  been  proved  in  an  Indisputable  manner 
and  Is  admitted  by  all  philosophers  (who  are  not  crass  mate- 
rialists and  are  not  involved  in  the  strident  contradictions  of 
materialism) ,  but  Is  professed  by  these  same  physicists  in  the 
spontaneous  philosophy  which  they  mingle  with  their  phys- 
ics, when  they  conceive  physical  phenomena  as  products  of 
principles  that  are  beyond  experience,  of  atoms  or  of  ether, 

[437] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

or  as  the  manifestation  of  an  Unknowable:  besides,  the 
matter  Itself  of  the  materialists  is  a  supermaterlal  principle. 
Thus  physical  facts  reveal  themselves,  by  their  internal  logic 
and  by  common  consent,  not  as  reality,  but  as  a  construction 
of  our  intellect  for  the  purposes  of  science.  Consequently, 
the  question  whether  art  be  a  physical  fact  must  rationally 
assume  this  different  signification:  that  Is  to  say,  whether 
it  he  possible  to  construct  art  physically.  And  this  Is  cer- 
tainly possible,  for  we  indeed  carry  it  out  always,  when, 
turning  from  the  sense  of  a  poem  and  ceasing  to  enjoy  It, 
we  set  ourselves,  for  example,  to  count  the  words  of  which 
the  poem  is  composed  and  to  divide  them  into  syllables  and 
letters;  or,  disregarding  the  aesthetic  effect  of  a  statue,  we 
weigh  and  measure  it :  a  most  useful  performance  for  the 
packers  of  statues,  as  is  the  other  for  the  typographers  who 
have  to  ''compose"  pages  of  poetry;  but  most  useless  for 
the  contemplator  and  student  of  art,  to  whom  it  Is  neither 
useful  nor  licit  to  allow  himself  to  be  "distracted"  from  his 
proper  object.  Thus  art  is  not  a  physical  fact  in  this  second 
sense,  either;  which  amounts  to  saying  that  when  we  propose/ 
to  ourselves  to  penetrate  its  nature  and  mode  of  action,  to  - 
construct  it  physically  is  of  no  avail. 

Another  negation  is  implied  in  the  definition  of  art  as  'm-( 
tuition:  If  It  be  intuition,  and  intuition  is  equivalent  to  theory^ 
in  the  original  sense  of  contemplation,  art  cannot  be  a  utili--^ 
tarian  act;  and  since  a  utilitarian  act  aims  always  at  obtain- 
ing a  pleasure  and  therefore  at  keeping  off  a  pain,  art, 
considered  In  Its  own  nature,  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
useful  and  with  pleasure  and  pain,  as  such.     It  will  be  ad- 
mitted, indeed,  without  much  dlfl^culty,  that  a  pleasure  as  a 
pleasure,  any  sort  of  pleasure,  is  not  of  itself  artistic;  the 
pleasure  of  a  drink  of  water  that  slakes  thirst,  or  a  walk  In 
the  open  air  that  stretches  our  limbs  and  makes  our  blood 

1:438: 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

circulate  more  lightly,  or  the  obtaining  of  a  longed-for  post 
that  settles  us  In  practical  life,  and  so  on,  is  not  artistic. 
Finally,  the  difference  between  pleasure  and  art  leaps  to  the 
eyes  in  the  relations  that  are  developed  between  ourselves 
and  works  of  art,  because  the  figure  represented  may  be  dear 
to  us  and  represent  the  most  delightful  memories,  and  at  the 
same  time  the  picture  may  be  ugly;  or,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  picture  may  be  beautiful  and  the  figure  represented  hate- 
ful to  our  hearts,  or  the  picture  Itself,  which  we  approve  as 
beautiful,  may  also  cause  us  rage  and  envy,  because  It  is  the 
work  of  our  enemy  or  rival,  for  whom  it  will  procure  advan- 
tage and  on  whom  it  will  confer  new  strength:  our  practical 
Interests,  with  their  relative  pleasures  and  pains,  mingle  and 
sometimes  become  confused  with  art  and  disturb,  but  are 
never  identified  with,  our  aesthetic  Interest.    At  the  most  it 
will  be  affirmed,  with  a  view  to  maintaining  more  effectively 
the  definition  of  art  as  the  pleasurable,  that  It  is  not  the 
pleasurable  in  general,  but  a  particular  form  of  the  pleasur- 
able.   But  such  a  restriction  Is  no  longer  a  defence.  It  Is  in- 
deed an  abandonment  of  that  thesis;  for  given  that  art  is  a 
particular  form  of  pleasure,  its  distinctive  character  would 
be  supplied,  not  by  the  pleasurable,  but  by  what  distinguishes 
that  pleasurable  from  other  pleasurables,  and  it  would  be 
desirable  to  turn  the  attention  to  that  distinctive  element- 
more  than  pleasurable  or  different  from  pleasurable.    Nev- 
ertheless, the  doctrine  that  defines  art  as  the  pleasurable  has 
a  special  denomination    (hedonistic  aesthetic),  and  a  long 
and  complicated  development  in  the  history  of  aesthetic  doc- 
trines: it  shewed  itself  In  the  Graeco-Roman  world,  prevailed 
In  the  eighteenth  century,  reflowered  in  the  second  half  of 
the  nineteenth,  and  still  enjoys  much  favour,  being  especially 
well  received  by  beginners  in  aesthetic,  who  are  above  all 
struck  by  the  fact  that  art  causes  pleasure.    The  life  of  this 

1:439] 


I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

doctrine  has  consisted  of  proposing  in  turn  one  or  another 
class  of  pleasures,  or  several  classes  together  (the  pleasure 
of  the  superior  senses,  the  pleasure  of  play,  of  consciousness 
of  our  own  strength,  of  criticism,  etc.,  etc.),  or  of  adding  to 
it  elements  differing  from  the  pleasurable,  the  useful  for 
example  (when  understood  as  distinct  from  the  pleasura- 
ble), the  satisfaction  of  cognoscitive  and  moral  wants,  and 
the  like.  And  its  progress  has  been  caused  just  by  this  rest- 
lessness, and  by  its  allowing  foreign  elements  to  ferment  in 
its  bosom,  which  it  introduces  through  the  necessity  of  some- 
how bringing  itself  into  agreement  with  the  reality  of  art, 
thus  attaining  to  its  dissolution  as  hedonistic  doctrine  and  to 
the  promotion  of  a  new  doctrine,  or  at  least  to  drawing  at- 
tention to  its  necessity.  And  since  every  error  has  its  ele- 
ment of  truth  (and  that  of  the  physical  doctrine  has  been 
seen  to  be  the  possibility  of  the  physical  "construction"  of 
art  as  of  any  other  fact),  the  hedonistic  doctrine  has  its  eter- 
nal element  of  truth  in  the  placing  in  relief  the  hedonistic 
accompaniment,  or  pleasure,  common  to  the  aesthetic  activity 
as  to  every  form  of  spiritual  activity,  which  it  has  not  at  all 
been  intended  to  deny  in  absolutely  denying  the  identification 
of  art  with  the  pleasurable,  and  in  distinguishing  it  from  the 
pleasurable  by  defining  it  as  intuition. 

A  third  negation,  effected  by  means  of  the  theory  of  art  as 
intuition,  is  that  art  is  a  moral  act;  that  is  to  say,  that  form 
of  practical  act  which,  although  necessarily  uniting  with  the 
useful  and  with  pleasure  and  pain,  is  not  immediately  utilita- 
rian and  hedonistic,  and  moves  in  a  superior  spiritual  sphere. 
But  the  intuition,  in  so  far  as  it  is  a  theoretic  act,  is  opposed 
to  the  practical  of  any  sort.  And  in  truth,  art,  as  has  been 
remarked  from  the  earliest  times,  does  not  arise  as  an  act  of 
the  will;  good  will,  which  constitutes  the  honest  man,  does 
not  constitute  the  artist.    And  since  it  is  not  the  result  of  an 

[440] 


P9RB 


m 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

act  of  will,  so  it  escapes  all  moral  discrimination,  not  because 
a  privilege  of  exemption  is  accorded  to  it,  but  simply  because 
moral  discrimination  cannot  be  applied  to  art.  An  artistic 
image  portrays  an  act  morally  praiseworthy  or  blamewor- 
thy; but  this  image,  as  image,  is  neither  morally  praisewor- 
thy nor  blameworthy.  Not  only  is  there  no  penal  code  that 
can  condemn  an  image  to  prison  or  to  death,  but  no  moral 
judgment,  uttered  by  a  rational  person,  can  make  of  it  its 
object:  we  might  just  as  well  judge  the  square  moral  or  the 
triangle  immoral  as  the  Francesca  of  Dante  immoral  or  the 
Cordelia  of  Shakespeare  moral,  for  these  have  a  purely  ar- 
tistic function,  they  are  like  musical  notes  in  the  souls  of 
Dante  and  of  Shakespeare.  Further,  the  moralistic  theory 
of  art  is  also  represented  in  the  history  of  aesthetic  doctrines, 
though  much  discredited  in  the  common  opinion  of  our  times, 
not  only  on  account  of  its  intrinsic  demerit,  but  also,  in  some 
measure,  owing  to  the  moral  demerit  of  certain  tendencies 
of  our  times,  which  render  possible,  owing  to  psychological 
dislike,  that  refutation  of  it  which  should  be  made— and 
which  we  here  make — solely  for  logical  reasons.  The  end 
attributed  to  art,  of  directing  the  good  and  inspiring  horror 
of  evil,  of  correcting  and  ameliorating  customs,  is  a  deriva- 
tion of  the  moralistic  doctrine;  and  so  is  the  demand  ad- 
dressed to  artists  to  collaborate  in  the  education  of  the  lower 
classes,  in  the  strengthening  of  the  national  or  bellicose  spirit 
of  a  people,  in  the  diffusion  of  the  ideals  of  a  modest  and  la- 
borious life;  and  so  on.  These  are  all  things  that  art  can- 
not do,  any  more  than  geometry,  which,  however,  does  not 
lose  anything  of  its  importance  on  account  of  its  inability  to 
do  this;  and  one  does  not  see  why  art  should  do  so,  either. 
That  it  cannot  do  these  things  was  partially  perceived  by  the 
moralistic  sestheticians  also;  who  very  readily  effected  a 
transactioii  with  it,  permitting  it  to  provide  pleasures  that 

[441] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

were  not  moral,  provided  they  were  not  openly  dishonest,  or 
recommending  it  to  employ  to  a  good  end  the  dominion  that, 
owing  to  its  hedonistic  power,  it  possessed  over  souls,  to 
gild  the  pill,  to  sprinkle  sweetness  upon  the  rim  of  the  glass 
containing  the  bitter  draught— in  short,  to  play  the  courte- 
zan (since  It  could  not  get  rid  of  its  old  and  inborn  habits), 
in  the  service  of  holy  church  or  of  morality:  meretrix  eccle- 
sia.  On  other  occasions  they  have  sought  to  avail  them- 
selves of  it  for  purposes  of  instruction,  since  not  only  virtue 
but  also  science  is  a  difficult  thing,  and  art  could  remove  this 
difficulty  and  render  pleasant  and  attractive  the  entrance 
into  the  ocean  of  science— indeed,  lead  them  through  it  as 
through  a  garden  of  Armida,  gaily  and  voluptuously,  with- 
out their  being  conscious  of  the  lofty  protection  they  had 
obtained,  or  of  the  crisis  of  renovation  which  they  were  pre- 
paring for  themselves.  We  cannot  now  refrain  from  a 
smile  when  we  talk  of  these  theories,  but  should  not  forget 
that  they  were  once  a  serious  matter  corresponding  to  a  seri- 
ous effort  to  understand  the  nature  of  art  and  to  elevate  the 
conception  of  it;  and  that  among  those  who  believed  In  It 
(to  limit  ourselves  to  Italian  literature)  were  Dante  and 
Tasso,  Parini  and  Alfierl,  ManzonI  and  Mazzlni.  And 
the  moralistic  doctrine  of  art  was  and  Is  and  will  be  per- 
petually beneficial  by  its  very  contradictions;  it  was  and  will 
be  an  effort,  however  unhappy,  to  separate  art  from  the 
merely  pleasing,  with  which  it  Is  sometimes  confused,  and 
to  assign  to  It  a  more  worthy  post:  and  it,  too,  has  its  true 
side,  because,  if  art  be  beyond  morality,  the  artist  is  neither 
this  side  of  it  nor  that,  but  under  Its  empire,  in  so  far  as  he 
is  a  man  who  cannot  withdraw  himself  from  the  duties  of 
man,  and  must  look  upon  art  Itself— art,  which  Is  not  and 
never  will  be  moral— as  a  mission  to  be  exercised  as  a  priestly 
office. 

[442] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

fir  Again  (and  this  is  the  last  and  perhaps  the  most  Important 
of  all  the  general  negations  that  It  suits  me  to  recall  In  rela- 
tion to  this  matter),  with  the  definition  of  art  as  intuition, 
we  deny  that  it  has  the  character  of  conceptual  knozvledge. 
Conceptual  knowledge,  in  its  true  form,  which  is  the  philo- 
sophical, is  always  realistic,  aiming  at  establishing  reality 
against  unreality,  or  at  lowering  unreality  by  including  it  in 
reality  as  a  subordinate  moment  of  reality  Itself.  But  in- 
tuition means,  precisely,  indistinction  of  reality  and  unreal- 
ity, the  image  with  Its  value  as  mere  image,  the  pure  ideality 
of  the  image;  and  opposing  the  intuitive  or  sensible  know- 
ledge to  the  conceptual  or  Intelligible,  the  aesthetic  to  the 
noetic,  it  aims  at  claiming  the  autonomy  of  this  more  simple 
and  elementary  form  of  knowledge,  which  has  been  com- 
pared to  the  dream  (the  dream,  and  not  the  sleep)  of  the 
theoretic  life,  in  respect  to  which  philosophy  would  be  the 
waking.  And  Indeed,  whoever  should  ask,  w^hen  examining 
a  work  of  art,  whether  what  the  artist  has  expressed  be 
metaphysically  and  historically  true  or  false,  asks  a  question 
that  is  without  meaning,  and  commits  an  error  analogous  to 
his  who  should  bring  the  airy  images  of  the  fancy  before 
the  tribunal  of  morality:  without  meaning,  because  the 
discrimination  of  true  and  false  always  concerns  an  affirma- 
tion of  reality,  or  a  judgment,  but  It  cannot  fall  under  the 
head  of  an  image  or  of  a  pure  subject,  which  is  not  the  sub- 
ject of  a  judgment,  since  It  is  without  qualification  or  predi- 
cate. It  is  useless  to  object  that  the  individuality  of  the 
image  cannot  subsist  without  reference  to  the  universal,  of 
which  that  image  Is  the  individuation,  because  we  do  not 
here  deny  that  the  universal,  as  the  spirit  of  God,  Is  every- 
where and  animates  all  things  with  itself,  but  we  deny  that 
the  universal  is  rendered  logically  explicit  and  is  thought 
in  the  intuition.     Useless  also  Is  the  appeal  to  the  principle 

[443] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

of  the  unity  of  the  spirit,  which  is  not  broken,  but,  on  the 
contrary,  strengthened  by  the  clear  distinction  of  fancy  from 
thought,  because  from  the  distinction  comes  opposition,  and 
from  opposition  concrete  unity. 

Ideality  (as  has  also  been  called  this  character  that  dis- 
tinguishes the  intuition  from  the  concept,  art  from  philoso- 
phy and  from  history,  from  the  affirmation  of  the  universal 
and  from  the  perception  or  narration  of  what  has  hap- 
pened) is  the  intimate  virtue  of  art:  no  sooner  are  reflection 
and  judgment  developed  from  that  ideality,  than  art  is  dis- 
sipated and  dies:  it  dies  in  the  artist,  who  becomes  a  critic; 
it  dies  in  the  contemplator,  who  changes  from  an  entranced 
enjoyer  of  art  to  a  meditative  observer  of  life. 

But  the  distinction  of  art  from  philosophy  (taken  widely 
as  including  all  thinking  of  the  real)  brings  with  it  other 
distinctions,  among  which  that  of  art  from  myth  occupies 
the  foremost  place.  For  myth,  to  him  who  believes  in  it, 
presents  itself  as  the  revelation  and  knowledge  of  reality 
as  opposed  to  unreality,  — a  reality  that  drives  away  other 
beliefs  as  illusory  or  false.  It  can  become  art  only  for  him 
who  no  longer  believes  in  it  and  avails  himself  of  mythology 
as  a  metaphor,  of  the  austere  world  of  the  gods  as  of  a 
beautiful  world,  of  God  as  of  an  image  of  sublimity.  Con- 
sidered, then,  in  its  genuine  reality,  in  the  soul  of  the  believer 
and  not  of  the  unbeliever,  it  is  religion  and  not  simple  fancy; 
and  religion  is  philosophy,  philosophy  in  process  of  becom- 
ing, philosophy  more  or  less  imperfect,  but  philosophy,  as 
philosophy  is  religion,  more  or  less  purified  and  elaborated, 
in  continuous  process  of  elaboration  and  purification,  but 
religion  or  thought  of  the  Absolute  or  Eternal.  Art  lacks 
the  thought  that  is  necessary  ere  it  can  become  myth  and 
religion,  and  the  faith  that  is  born  of  thought;  the  artist 
neither  believes  nor  disbelieves  in  his  image:  he  produces 

[444] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

it.  And,  for  a  different  reason,  the  concept  of  art  as  in- 
tuition excludes,  on  the  other  hand,  the  conception  of  art  as  ' 
the  production  of  classes  and  types,  species  and  genera,  or 
again  (as  a  great  mathematician  and  philosopher  had  occa- 
sion to  say  of  music),  as  an  exercise  of  unconscious  arith- 
metic; that  is,  it  distinguishes  art  from  the  positive  sciences  " 
and  from  mathematics,  in  both  of  which  appears  the  con- 
ceptual form,  though  without  realistic  character,  as  mere 
general  representation  or  mere  abstraction.  But  that  ideal- 
ity which  natural  and  mathematical  science  would  seem  to 
assume,  as  opposed  to  the  world  of  philosophy,  of  religion 
and  of  history,  and  which  would  seem  to  approximate  it  to 
art  (and  owing  to  which  scientists  and  mathematicians  of 
our  day  are  so  ready  to  boast  of  creating  worlds,  of  fictiones, 
resembling  the  fictions  and  figurations  of  the  poets,  even  in 
their  vocabulary),  is  gained  with  the  renunciation  of  con- 
crete thought,  by  means  of  generalisation  and  abstraction, 
which  are  capricious,  volitional  decisions,  practical  acts,  and, 
as  practical  acts,  extraneous  and  inimical  to  the  world  of 
art.  Thus  it  happens  that  art  manifests  much  more  repug- 
nance toward  the  positive  and  mathematical  sciences  than 
toward  philosophy,  religion  and  history,  because  these  seem 
to  it  to  be  fellow-citizens  of  the  same  world  of  theory  or  of 
knowledge,  whereas  those  others  shock  it  with  the  brutality 
toward  contemplation  of  the  practical  world.  Poetry  and 
classification,  and,  worse  still,  poetry  and  mathematics,  ap- 
pear to  be  as  little  in  agreement  as  fire  and  water:  the  esprit 
mathematiqiie  and  the  esprit  scientifique,  the  most  declared 
enemies  of  the  esprit  poetique;  those  periods  in  which  the 
natural  sciences  and  mathematics  prev^ail  (for  example,  the 
intellectualism  of  the  eighteenth  century)  seem  to  be  the 
least  fruitful  in  poetry. 

And  since  this  vindication  of  the  alogical  character  of  art 

c:445n 


/ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

is,  as  I  have  said,  the  most  difficult  and  important  of  the 
negations    included    in    the    formula    of    art-intuition,    the 
theories  that  attempt  to  explain  art  as  philosophy,  as  re- 
ligion, as  history,  or  as  science,  and  in  a  lesser  degree  as 
mathematics,   occupy  the   greater  part   of   the   history  of 
aesthetic  science   and  are  adorned  with  the  names  of  the 
greatest  philosophers.    Schelling  and  Hegel  afford  examples 
of  the  identification  or  confusion  of  art  with  religion  and 
philosophy  in  the  eighteenth  century;  Taine,  of  its  confusion 
with  the  natural  sciences;  the  theories  of  the  French  verists, 
of  its  confusion  with  historical  and  documentary  observa- 
tion; the  formalism  of  the  Herbartians,  of  its  confusion  with 
mathematics.    But  it  would  be  vain  to  seek  pure  examples  of 
these  errors  in  any  of  these  authors  and  in  the  others  that 
might  be  mentioned,  because  error  is  never  pure,  for  if  it 
were  so,  it  would  be  truth.    Thus  the  doctrines  of  art  that 
for  the  sake  of  brevity  I  shall  term  "conceptualistic"  contain 
elements  of  dissolution,  the  more  copious  and  efficacious 
by  as  much  as  the  spirit  of  the  philosopher  who  professed 
them  was   energetic,   and  therefore  nowhere   are  they  so 
copious  and  efficacious  as  in  SchelHng  and  Hegel,  who  thus 
had  so  lively  a  consciousness  of  artistic  production  as  to  sug- 
gest by  their  observations  and  their  particular  developments 
a  theory  opposed  to  that  maintained  in  their  systems.    Fur- 
thermore, the  very  conceptualistic  theories  are  superior  to 
the  others  previously  examined,  not  only  in  so  far  as  they 
recognise  the  theoretic  character  of  art,  but  also  carry  with 
them  their  contribution  to  the  true  doctrine,  owing  to  the 
claim  that  they  make  for  a  determination  of  the  relations 
(which,  if  they  be  of  distinction,  are  also  of  unity)  between 
fancy  and  logic,  between  art  and  thought. 

And  here  we  can  already  see  how  the  simplest  formula, 
that  "art  is  intuition,''— which,  translated  into  other  sym- 

1:446:] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

bohcal  terms  (for  example,  that  "art  is  the  work  of  fancy"), 
is  to  be  found  in  the  mouths  of  all  those  who  daily  discuss 
art,  and  is  to  be  found  in  older  terms  ("imitation,"  "fiction," 
"fable,"  etc.)  in  so  many  old  books,— pronounced  now  in  the 
text  of  a  philosophical  discourse,  becomes  filled  with  a  his- 
torical, critical,  and  polemical  content,  of  which  I  can  hardly 
here  give  any  example.  And  it  will  no  longer  cause  astonish- 
ment that  its  philosophical  conquest  should  have  cost  an 
especially  great  amount  of  toil,  because  that  conquest  is  like 
setting  foot  upon  a  little  hill  long  fought  for  in  battle.  Its 
easy  ascent  by  the  thoughtless  pedestrian  in  time  of  peace 
is  a  very  different  matter;  it  is  not  a  simple  resting-place 
on  a  walk,  but  the  symbol  and  result  of  the  victory  of  an 
army.  The  historian  of  aesthetic  follows  the  steps  of  its  diffi- 
cult progress,  in  which  (and  this  is  another  magical  act  of 
thought)  the  conqueror,  instead  of  losing  strength  through 
the  blows  that  his  adversary  inflicts  upon  him,  acquires  new 
strength  through  these  very  blows,  and  reaches  the  sighed-for 
eminence,  repulsing  his  adversary,  and  yet  in  his  company. 
Here  I  cannot  do  more  than  record  in  passing  the  importance 
of  the  Aristotelian  concept  of  mimesis  (arising  in  opposition 
to  the  Platonic  condemnation  of  poetry),  and  the  attempt 
made  by  the  same  philosopher  to  distinguish  poetry  and  his- 
tory: a  concept  that  was  not  sufficiently  developed,  and  per- 
haps not  altogether  mature  in  his  mind,  and  therefore  long 
misunderstood,  but  which  was  yet  to  serve,  after  many  cen- 
turies, as  the  point  of  departure  for  modern  aesthetic 
thought.  And  I  will  mention  in  passing  the  ever-increasing 
consciousness  of  the  difference  between  lo^ic  and  fancy,  be- 
tween judgment  and  taste,  between  intellect  and  genius, 
which  became  ever  more  lively  during  the  course  of  the  sev- 
enteenth century,  and  the  solemn  form  which  the  contest 
between  Poetry  and  Metaphysic  assumed  in  the  "Scienza 

1:447: 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Nuova"  of  Vico;  and  also  the  scholastic  construction  of  an 
^sthetica,  distinct  from  a  Logica,  as  Gnoseologia  inferior 
and  Scientia  cognitionis  sensitive,  in  Baumgarten,  who,  how- 
ever, remained  involved  in  the  conceptualistic  conception  of 
art,  and  did  not  carry  out  his  project;  and  the  Critique  of 
Kant  directed  against  Baumgarten  and  all  the  Leibnitzians 
and  Wolffians,  which  made  it  clear  that  intuition  is  intuition 
and  not  a  "confused  concept";  and  romanticism,  which 
perhaps  better  developed  the  new  idea  of  art,  announced 
by  Vico,  in  its  artistic  criticism  and  in  its  histories  than  in 
its  systems;  and,  finally,  the  criticism  inaugurated  in  Italy  by 
Francesco  de  Sanctis,  who  caused  art  as  pure  form,  or  pure 
intuition,  to  prevail  over  all  utilitarianism,  moralism,  and 
conceptualism  (to  adopt  his  vocabulary). 

But  doubt  springs  up  at  the  feet  of  truth,  "like  a  young 
shoot,"  — as  the  terzina  of  father  Dante  has  it,— doubt, 
which  is  what  drives  the  intellect  of  man  "from  mount  to 
mount."  The  doctrine  of  art  as  intuition,  as  fancy,  as  form, 
now  gives  rise  to  an  ulterior  (I  have  not  said  an  "ultimate") 
problem,  which  is  no  longer  one  of  opposition  and  distinc- 
tion toward  physics,  hedonistic,  ethic  and  logic,  but  the  field 
of  images  itself,  which  sets  in  doubt  the  capacity  of  the  im- 
age to  define  the  character  of  art  and  is  in  reality  occupied 
with  the  mode  of  separating  the  genuine  from  the  spurious 
image,  and  of  enriching  in  this  way  the  concept  of  the  image 
and  of  art.  What  function  (it  is  asked)  can  a  world  of 
pure  images  possess  in  the  spirit  of  man,  without  philosophi- 
cal, historical,  religious  or  scientific  value,  and  without  even 
moral  or  hedonistic  value?  What  is  more  vain  than  to 
dream  with  open  eyes  in  life,  which  demands,  not  only  open 
eyes,  but  an  open  mind  and  a  nimble  spirit?  Pure  images! 
But  to  nourish  oneself  upon  pure  images  is  called  by  a  name 
of  little  honour,  "to  dream,"  and  there  is  usually  added  to 

n448: 


H 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

this  the  epithet  of  "idle."     It  is  a  very  insipid  and  inconclu- 
sive thing;  can  it  ever  be  art?     Certainly,  we  sometimes 
amuse  ourselves  with  the  reading  of  some  sensational  ro- 
mance of  adventure,  where  images  follow  images  in  the  most 
various  and  unexpected  way;  but  we  thus  enjoy  ourselves  in 
moments  of  fatigue,  when  we  are  obliged  to  kill  time,  and 
with  a  full  consciousness  that  such  stuff  is  not  art.    Such  in- 
stances are  of  the  nature  of  a  pastime,  a  game;  but  were  art 
a  game  or  a  pastime,  it  would  fall  into  the  wide  arms  of 
hedonistic  doctrine,  ever  open  to  receive  it.     And  it  is  a 
utilitarian  and  hedonistic  need  that  impels  us  sometimes  to 
relax  the  bow  of  the  mind  and  the  bow  of  the  will,  and  to 
stretch  ourselves,  allowing  images  to  follow  one  another  in 
our  memory,  or  combining  them  in  quaint  forms  with  the  aid 
of  the  Imagination,  In  a  sort  of  waking  sleep,  from  which  we 
rouse  ourselves  as  soon  as  we  are  rested;  and  we  sometimes 
rouse  ourselves  just  to  devote  ourselves  to  the  work  of  art, 
which  cannot  be  produced  by  a  mind  relaxed.     Thus  either 
art  is  not  pure  intuition,  and  the  claims  put  forward  In  the 
doctrines  which  we  believed  we  had  above  confuted,  are  not 
satisfied,  and  so  the  confutation  Itself  of  these  doctrines  is 
troubled  with  doubts;  or  Intuition  cannot  consist  in  a  simple 
act  of  Imagination. 

In  order  to  render  the  problem  more  exact  and  more  diffi- 
cult, It  will  be  well  to  eliminate  from  It  at  once  that  part  to 
which  the  answer  is  easy,  and  which  I  have  not  wished  to 
neglect,  precisely  because  It  Is  usually  united  and  confused 
with  it.  The  intuition  Is  the  product  of  an  image,  and  not  of 
an  incoherent  mass  of  Images  obtained  by  recalling  former 
Images  and  allowing  them  to  succeed  one  another  capri- 
ciously, by  combining  one  Image  with  another  in  a  like  capri- 
cious manner,  joining  a  horse's  neck  to  a  human  head,  and 
thus  playing  a   childish  game.     Old  Poetic   availed  Itself 

1:4493 


».--—-• 


„*j:j«5».\ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

above  all  of  the  concept  of  unity ^  in  order  to  express  this 
distinction   between  the   intuition   and   imagining,   insisting 
that  whatever  the  artistic  work,   it  should  be  simplex  et 
iinum;  or  of  the  allied  concept  of  unity  in  variety— th^Lt  is  to 
say,  the  multiple  images  were  to  find  their  common  centre 
unit  of  union  in  a  comprehensive  image:  and  the  aesthetic  of 
the  nineteenth  century  created  with  the  same  object  the  dis- 
tinction, which  appears  in  not  a  few  of  its  philosophers, 
between  fancy   (the  peculiar  artistic  faculty)   and  imagina- 
tion (the  extra-artistic  faculty).     To  amass,  select,  cut  up, 
combine  images,  presupposes  the  possession  of  particular 
images   in    the    spirit;    and    fancy   produces,    whereas    im- 
agination is  sterile,  adapted  to  extrinsic  combinations  and 
not  to  the  generation  of  organism  and  life.    The  most  pro- 
found  problem,   contained   beneath   the    rather   superficial 
formula   with  which   I   first   presented  it,   is,   then:  What 
is  the  office  of  the  pure  image  in  the  life  of  the  spirit?  or 
(which  at  bottom  amounts  to  the  same  thing),  How  does 
the  pure  image  come  into  existence?    Every  inspired  work 
of  art  gives  rise  to  a  long  series  of  imitators,  who  just  re- 
peat, cut  up  in  pieces,  combine,  and  mechanically  exaggerate 
that  work,  and  by  so  doing  play  the  part  of  imagination 
toward  or  against  the  fancy.     But  what  is  the  justification, 
or  what  the  genesis,  of  the  work  of  genius,  which  is  after- 
ward submitted  (a  sign  of  glory!)  to  such  torments?     In 
order  to  make  this  point  clear,  we  must  go  deeply  into  the 
character  of  fancy  or  pure  intuition. 

And  the  best  way  to  prepare  this  deeper  study  is  to  recall 
to  mind  and  to  criticise  the  theories  with  which  it  has  been 
sought  to  differentiate  artistic  intuition  from  merely  In- 
coherent imagination  (while  taking  care  not  to  fall  into  real- 
ism or  conceptualism),  to  establish  In  what  the  principle  of 
unity  consists,  and  to  justify  the  productlv^e  character  of  the 

1:450] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

fancy.    The  artistic  image  (it  has  been  said)  Is  such,  when 
it  unites  the  intelligible  with  the  sensible,  and  represents  an 
idea.    Now  ^'intelligible"  and  "Idea"  cannot  mean  anything 
but  concept  (nor  has  it  a  different  meaning  with  those  who 
maintain  this  doctrine) ;  even  though  it  be  the  concrete  con- 
cept or  idea,  proper  to  lofty  philosophical  speculation,  which 
differs  from  the  abstract  concept  or  from  the  representa- 
tive concept  of  the  sciences.    But  in  any  case,  the  concept  or 
idea  always  unites  the  intelligible  to  the  sensible,  and  not 
only  in  art,  for  the  new  concept  of  the  concept,  first  stated  by 
Kant  and  (so  to  speak)   immanent  in  all  modern  thought, 
heals  the  breach  between  the  sensible  and  the  intelligible 
worlds,  conceives  the  concept  as  judgment,  and  the  judgment 
as  synthesis  a  priori,  and  the  synthesis  a  priori  as  the  word 
become  flesh,  as  history.     Thus  that  definition  of  art  leads 
the  fancy  back  to  logic  and  art  to  philosophy,  contrary  to 
intention;  and  is  at  most  valid  for  the  abstract  conception  of 
science,  not  for  the  problem  of  art  (the  aesthetic  and  teleo- 
logical'  ''Critique   of   Judgment"    of    Kant    had   precisely 
this  historical  function  of  correcting  what  of  abstract  there 
yet  remained  in  the  "Critique  of  Pure  Reason" ) .    To  seek  a 
sensible  element  for  the  concept,  beyond  that  which  it  has 
already  absorbed  in  itself  as  concrete  concept,  and  beyond 
the  words  in  which  it  expresses  itself,  would  be  superfluous. 
If  we  persist  in  this  search,  it  is  true  that  we  abandon  the 
conception  of  art  as  philosophy  or  history,  but  only  to  pass 
to  the  conception  of  art  as  allegory.    And  the  unsurmounta- 
ble  difficulties  of  the  allegory  are  well  known,  as  its  frigid 
and  anti-historical  character  is  known  and  universally  felt. 
Allegory  Is  the  extrinsic  union,  the  conventional  and  arbi- 
trary juxtaposition  of  two  spiritual  acts,  a  concept  or  thought 
and  an  image,  where  it  is  assumed  that  this  image  must 
represent  that  concept.    And  not  only  is  the  individual  char- 

[451] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

acter  of  the  artistic  image  not  explained  by  this,  but,  in  addi- 
tion, a  duality  is  purposely  created,  because  thought  remains 
thought  and  image  image  in  this  juxtaposition,  without  rela- 
tion between  themselves;  so  much  so,  that  in  contemplating 
the  image,  we  forget  the  concept  without  any  disadvantage, 
—indeed,  with  advantage,  — and  in  thinking  the  concept, 
we  dissipate,  also  with  advantage,  the  superfluous  and  tire- 
some image.  Allegory  enjoyed  much  favour  in  the  Middle 
Ages,  that  mixture  of  Germanism  and  Romanism,  of  bar- 
barism and  culture,  of  bold  fancy  and  of  acute  reflection; 
but  it  was  the  theoretic  element  in,  and  not  the  effective  real- 
ity of,  the  same  mediaeval  art  which,  where  it  is  art,  drives 
allegory  away  from  or  resolves  it  in  itself.  This  need  for 
the  solution  of  allegorical  dualism  leads  to  the  refining  of 
the  theory  of  intuition,  in  so  far  as  it  is  allegory  of  the  idea, 
into  the  other  theory,  of  the  intuition  as — symbol;  for  the 
idea  does  not  stand  by  itself  in  the  symbol,  thinkable  sepa- 
rately from  the  symbolising  representation,  nor  does  the 
symbol  stand  by  itself,  representable  in  a  lively  manner 
without  the  idea  symbolised.  The  idea  is  all  reduced  to  rep- 
resentation (as  said  the  sesthetician  Vischer,  if  to  anyone  be- 
longs the  blame  of  the  very  prosaic  comparison  for  so  poetic 
and  metaphysical  a  theme),  like  a  lump  of  sugar  melted 
in  a  glass  of  water,  which  exists  and  acts  in  every  molecule 
of  water,  but  is  no  longer  to  be  found  as  a  lump  of  sugar. 
But  the  idea  that  has  disappeared,  the  idea  that  has  become 
entirely  representative,  the  idea  that  we  can  no  longer  suc- 
ceed in  seizing  as  idea  (save  by  extracting  it,  like  sugar  from 
sugared  water),  is  no  longer  idea,  and  is  only  the  sign  that 
the  unity  of  the  artistic  image  has  not  yet  been  achieved. 
Certainly  art  is  symbol,  all  symbol— that  is,  all  significant; 
but  symbol  of  what?  What  does  it  mean?  The  intuition  is 
truly  artistic,  it  is  truly  intuition,  and  not  a  chaotic  mass  of 

[:452J 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

images,  only  when  it  has  a  vital  principle  that  animates  it, 
making  it  all  one  with  itself;  but  what  is  this  principle? 

The  answer  to  such  a  question  may  be  said  to  result  from 
the  examination  of  the  greatest  ideal  strife  that  has  ever 
taken  place  in  the  field  of  art  ( and  is  not  confined  to  the  epoch 
that  took  its  name  from  it  and  in  which  it  was  predomi- 
nant) :  the  strife  between  romanticism  and  classicism.     Giv- 
ing the  general  definition,  here  convenient,  and  setting  aside 
minor  and  accidental  determinations,  romanticism  asks  of 
art,  above  all,  the  spontaneous  and  violent  effusion  of  the  af- 
fections, of  love  and  hate,  of  anguish  and  jubilation,  of  des- 
peration and  elevation;  and  is  willingly  satisfied  and  pleased 
with  vaporous  and  indeterminate  images,  broken  and  allu- 
sive  in   style,    with   vague   suggestions,   with   approximate 
phrases,  with  powerful  and  troubled  sketches:  while  classi- 
cism loves  the  peaceful  soul,  the  wise  design,  figures  studied 
in  their  characteristics  and  precise  in  outline,  ponderation, 
equilibrium,  clarity;  and  resolutely  tends  toward  represen- 
tation, as  the  other  tends  toward  feeling.  And  whoever  puts 
himself  at  one  or  the  other  point  of  view  finds  crowds  of 
reasons  for  maintaining  it  and  for  confuting  the  opposite 
point  of  view;  because    (say  the  romantics).  What  Is  the 
use  of  an  art,  rich  in  beautiful  images,  w^hlch,  nevertheless, 
does  not  speak  to  the  heart?     And  If  it  do  speak  to  the 
heart,  what  Is  the  use  If  the  Images  be  not  beautiful?    And 
the  others  will  say,  What  is  the  use  of  the  shock  of  the  pas- 
sions,  if  the  spirit  do  not  rest  upon  a  beautiful  image? 
And  If  the  Image  be  beautiful,   if  our  taste  be  satisfied, 
what  matters  the  absence  of  those  emotions  which  can  all 
of  them  be  obtained  outside  art,  and  which  life  does  not 
fall  to  provide,  sometimes  In  greater  quantity  than  we  de- 
sire?—But  when  we  begin  to  feel  weary  of  the  fruitless 
defence  of  both  partial  views;  above  all,  when  we  turn 

1:453] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

away  from  the  ordinary  works  of  art  produced  by  the  ro- 
mantic and  classical  schools,  from  works  convulsed  with 
passion  or  coldly  decorous,  and  fix  them  on  the  works, 
not  of  the  disciples,  but  of  the  masters,  not  of  the  medio- 
cre, but  of  the  supreme,  we  see  the  contest  disappear  in 
the  distance  and  find  ourselves  unable  to  call  the  great  por- 
tions of  these  works,  romantic  or  classic  or  representative, 
because  they  are  both  classic  and  romantic,  feelings  and 
representations,  a  vigorous  feeling  which  has  become  all 
most  brilliant  representation.  Such,  for  example,  are  the 
works  of  Hellenic  art,  and  such  those  of  Italian  poetry 
and  art:  the  transcendentalism  of  the  Middle  Ages  be- 
came fixed  in  the  bronze  of  the  Dantesque  terzina;  melan- 
choly and  suave  fancy,  in  the  transparency  of  the  songs  and 
sonnets  of  Petrarch;  sage  experience  of  life  and  badinage 
with  the  fables  of  the  past,  in  the  limpid  ottava  rima  of 
Ariosto;  heroism  and  the  thought  of  death,  in  the  perfect 
blank-verse  hendecasyllabics  of  Foscolo;  the  infinite  variety 
of  everything,  in  the  sober  and  austere  songs  of  Giacomo 
Leopardi.  Finally  (be  it  said  in  parenthesis  and  without 
intending  comparison  with  the  other  examples  adduced) ,  the 
voluptuous  refinements  and  animal  sensuality  of  interna- 
tional decadentism  have  received  their  most  perfect  expres- 
sion in  the  prose  and  verse  of  an  Italian,  D^Annunzio.  All 
these  souls  were  profoundly  passionate  (all,  even  the  serene 
Lodovico  Ariosto,  who  was  so  amorous,  so  tender,  and  so 
often  represses  his  emotion  with  a  smile)  ;  their  works  of 
art  are  the  eternal  flow^er  that  springs  from  their  passions. 

These  expressions  and  these  critical  judgments  can  be 
theoretically  resumed  in  the  formula,  that  what  gives  co- 
herence and  unity  to  the  intuition  is  feeling:  the  intuition  is 
really  such  because  it  represents  a  feeling,  and  can  only  ap- 
pear from  and  upon  that.     Not  the  idea,  but  the  feeling,  is 

[454] 


■"^ 


\  1 


I'f 


14 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

what  confers  upon  art  the  airy  lightness  of  the  symbol:  an 
aspiration  enclosed  in  the  circle  of  a  representation— that  is 
art;  and  in  it  the  aspiration  alone  stands  for  the  representa- 
tion, and  the  representation  alone  for  the  aspiration.     Epic 
and  lyric,  or  drama  and  lyric,  are  scholastic  divisions  of  the 
indivisible:  art  is  always  lyrical— that  is,  epic  and  dramatic 
in  feeling.    What  we  admire  in  genuine  works  of  art  is  the 
perfect  fanciful  form  which  a  state  of  the  soul  assumes;  and 
we  call  this  life,  unity,  solidity  of  the  work  of  art.     What 
displeases  us  in  the  false  and  imperfect  forms  is  the  struggle 
of  several  different  states  of  the  soul  not  yet  unified,  their 
stratification,   or  mixture,  their  vacillating  method,  which 
obtains  apparent  unity  from  the  will  of  the  author,  who  for 
this  purpose  avails  himself  of  an  abstract  plan  or  idea,  or  of 
extra-aesthetic,    passionate    emotion.      A    series   of   images 
which  seem  to  be,  each  in  turn,  rich  in  power  of  conviction, 
leaves  us  nevertheless  deluded  and  diffident,  because  we  do 
not  see  them  generated  from  a  state  of  the  soul,  from  a 
'^sketch"    (as  the  painters  call  it),   from  a  motive;   and 
they  follow  one  another  and  crowd  together  without  that 
precise  intonation,  without  that  accent,  which  comes  from 
the  heart.     And  what  is  the  figure  cut  out  from  the  back- 
ground of  the  picture  or  transported  and  placed  against 
another  background,  what  is  the  personage  of  drama  or  of 
romance  outside  his  relation  with  all  the  other  personages 
and  with  the  general  action?    And  what  is  the  value  of  this 
general  action  if  it  be  not  an  action  of  the  spirit  of  the  au- 
thor?    The  secular  disputes  concerning  dramatic  unity  are 
interesting  in  this  connection;  they  are  first  applied  to  the 
unity  of  "action''  when  they  have  been  obtained  from  an 
extrinsic  determination  of  time  and  place,  and  this  finally 
applied  to  the  unity  of  ''interest,"  and  the  interest  would 
have  to  be  in  its  turn  dissolved  in  the  interest  of  the  spirit  of 

[4553 


ky«.-j .*-*  p - 


*>i!*^.*'t??WtA*-»t'fe« 


„:,,•-  «k 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

the  poet— that  is,  in  his  intimate  aspiration,  in  his  feeling. 
The  negative  issue  of  the  great  dispute  between  classicists 
and  romanticists  is  interesting,  for  it  resulted  in  the  negation 
both  of  the  art  which  strives  to  distract  and  illude  the  soul 
as  to  the  deficiency  of  the  image  with  mere  feeling,  with 
the  practical  violence  of  feeling,  with  feeling  that  has  not 
become  contemplation,  and  of  the  art  which,  by  means  of  the 
superficial  clearness  of  the  image,  of  drawing  correctly  false, 
of  the  word  falsely  correct,  seeks  to  deceive  as  to  its  lack  of 
inspiration  and  its  lack  of  an  aesthetic  reason  to  justify  what 
it  has  produced.  A  celebrated  sentence  uttered  by  an  Eng- 
lish critic,  and  become  one  of  the  commonplaces  of  journal- 
ism, states  that  "all  the  arts  tend  to  the  condition  of  music"; 
but  it  would  have  been  more  accurate  to  say  that  all  the  arts 
are  music,  if  it  be  thus  intended  to  emphasise  the  genesis  of 
aesthetic  images  in  feeling,  excluding  from  their  number  those 
mechanically  constructed  or  realistically  ponderous.  And 
another  not  less  celebrated  utterance  of  a  Swiss  semi-philos- 
opher, which  has  had  the  like  good  or  bad  fortune  of  be- 
coming trivial,  discovers  that  "every  landscape  is  a  state  of 
the  soul" :  which  is  indisputable,  not  because  the  landscape  is 
landscape,  but  because  the  landscape  is  art. 

Artistic  intuition,  then,  is  always  lyrical  intuition:  this 
latter  being  a  word  that  is  not  present  as  an  adjective  or 
definition  of  the  first,  but  as  a  synonym,  another  of  the 
synonyms  that  can  be  united  to  the  several  that  I  have  men- 
tioned already,  and  which,  all  of  them,  designate  the  Intuition. 
And  if  it  be  sometimes  convenient  that  instead  of  appearing 
as  a  synonym,  it  should  assume  the  grammatical  form  of 
the  adjective,  that  is  only  to  make  clear  the  difference  be- 
tween the  intuition-Image,  or  nexus  of  images  (for  what 
is  called  image  is  always  a  nexus  of  images,  since  image- 
atoms  do  not  exist  any  more  than  thought-atoms),  which 

1:456] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

constitutes  the  organism,  and,  as  organism,  has  Its  vital  prin- 
ciple, which  is  the  organism  itself,— between  this,  which  is 
true  and  proper  intuition,  and  that  false  intuition  which  is  a 
heap  of  images  put  together  in  play  or  intentionally  or  for 
some  other  practical  purpose,  the  connection  of  which,  be- 
ing practical,  shows  itself  to  be  not  organic,  but  mechanic, 
when  considered  from  the  aesthetic  point  of  view.  But  the 
word  lyric  would  be  redundant  save  in  this  explicative  or 
polemical  sense;  and  art  is  perfectly  defined  when  It  is  simply 
defined  as  intuition. 


1:4573 


H 


m^mmim^»>^i: 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


I- 


II 
PREJUDICES  RELATING  TO  ART 

THERE  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  process  of  distinction 
of  art  from  the  facts  and  the  acts  with  which  it  has 
been  and  is  confused,  which  I  have  summarily  traced,  neces- 
sitates no  small  mental  effort;  but  this  effort  is  rewarded  with 
the  freedom  which  it  affords  of  handling  the  many  fallacious 
distinctions  which  disfigure  the  field  of  aesthetic.  These,  al- 
though they  do  not  present  any  difficulty  in  thinking  out  (in- 
deed, at  first  they  seduce  by  their  very  facility  and  deceitful 
self-evidence) ,  yet  imply  the  other  and  greater  annoyance  of 
preventing  all  profound  understanding,  and  indeed  of  mak- 
ing it  impossible  to  understand  anything  as  to  what  art  truly 
is.  It  is  true  that  many  people,  in  order  to  retain  the  power 
of  repeating  vulgar  and  traditional  distinctions,  voluntarily 
resign  themselves  to  this  ignorance.  We,  on  the  contrary, 
now  prefer  to  throw^  them  all  away,  as  a  useless  hindrance  in 
the  new  task  to  which  the  new  theoretic  position  that  we 
have  attained  invites  and  leads  us,  and  to  enjoy  the  greater 
facility  which  comes  from  feeling  rich.  Wealth  is  not  only 
to  be  obtained  by  acquiring  many  objects,  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, by  getting  rid  of  all  those  that  represent  economic 
debt. 

Let  us  begin  with  the  most  famous  of  these  economic 
debts  in  the  circle  of  esthetic :  the  distinction  between  con- 
tent and  form,  which  has  caused  a  division  of  schools  even 
in  the  nineteenth  century:  the  schools  of  the  aesthetic  of 
the  content  (Gehalts^sthetik)  and  that  of  the  aesthetic  of 
form    {Formcesthetik).     The  problems   from  which  these 

1:458: 


Vi 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

opposed  schools  arose  were,  in  general,  the  following:  Does 
art  consist  solely  of  the  content,  or  solely  of  the  form,  or  of 
content  and  form  together?     What  is  the  character  of  the 
content,    what    that    of   the    aesthetic    form?— It   was    an- 
swered, on  the  one  hand,  that  art,  the  essence  of  art,  is  all 
contained  in  the  content,  defined  as  that  which  pleases,  or  as 
what  is  moral,  or  as  what  raises  man  to  the  heaven  of  re- 
ligion or  of  metaphysic,  or  as  what  is  historically  correct,  or, 
finally,  as  what  is  naturally  and  physically  beautiful.    And, 
on  the  other  hand,  that  the  content  is  indifferent,  that  it  is 
simply   a   peg   or   hook   from   which   beautiful    forms    are 
suspended,  which  alone  beatify  the  aesthetic  spirit :  unity,  har- 
mony, symmetry,  and  so  on.     And  on  both  sides  it  was 
attempted  to  attract  the  element  that  had  previously  been 
excluded  from  the  essence  of  art  as  subordinate  and  second- 
ary: those  for  the  content  admitted  that  it  was  an  advantage 
to  the  content  (which,  according  to  them,  was  really  the  con- 
stitutive element  of  the  beautiful)  to  adorn  itself  with  beau- 
tiful forms  also,  and  to  present  itself  as  unity,  symmetry,  har- 
mony, etc.;  and  the  formalists,  in  their  turn,  admitted  that 
if  art  did  not  gain  by  the  value  of  its  content,  its  effect  did, 
not  a  single  value,  but  the  sum  of  two  values  being  in  this 
case  offered.    These  doctrines,  which  attained  their  greatest 
scholastic  bulk   in  Germany  with  the  Hegelians   and  the 
Herbartians,  is  also  to  be  found  more  or  less  everywhere  in 
the  history  of  aesthetic,  ancient,  mediaeval,  modern,  and  most 
modern;  and  is  what  amounts  to  most  in  common  opinion, 
for  nothing  is  more  common  than  to  hear  that  a  drama  is 
beautiful  in  "form,"  but  a  failure  in  "content'^  that  a  poem 
is  "most  nobly"  conceived,  but  "executed  in  ugly  verse" ;  that 
a  painter  would  have  been  greater  did  he  not  waste  his 
power  as  a  designer  and  as  a  colourist,  upon  "small  and  un- 
worthy themes,"  instead  of  selecting,  on  the  contrary,  those 

1:459: 


M 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

of  a  historical,  patriotic,  or  sociological  character.  It  may 
be  said  that  fine  taste  and  true  critical  sense  of  art  have  to 
defend  themselves  at  every  step  against  the  perversions  of 
judgment  arising  from  these  doctrines,  in  which  philosophers 
become  the  crowd,  and  the  crowd  feels  itself  philosoph- 
ical, because  in  agreement  with  those  crowd-philosophers. 
The  origin  of  these  theories  is  no  secret  for  us,  because,  even 
in  the  brief  sketch  that  we  have  given,  it  is  quite  clear  that 
they  have  sprung  from  the  trunk  of  hedonistic,  moralistic, 
conceptualistic,  or  physical  conceptions  of  art:  they  are  all 
doctrines  which,  failing  to  perceive  what  makes  art  art, 
were  obliged  somehow  to  regain  art,  which  they  had  allowed 
to  escape  them,  and  to  reintroduce  it  in  the  form  of  an  acces- 
sory or  accidental  element;  the  upholders  of  the  theory  of  the 
content  conceived  it  as  an  abstract  formal  element,  the  for- 
malists as  the  abstract  element  of  the  content.  What  inter- 
ests us  in  those  aesthetics  is  just  this  dialectic,  in  which  the 
theorists  of  the  content  become  formalists  against  their  will, 
and  the  formalists  upholders  of  the  theory  of  the  content; 
thus  each  passes  over  to  occupy  the  other's  place,  but 
to  be  restless  there  and  to  return  to  their  own,  which  gives 
rise  to  the  same  restlessness.  The  "beautiful  forms"  of  Her- 
bart  do  not  differ  in  any  way  from  the  "beautiful  contents" 
of  the  Hegelians,  because  both  are  nothing.  And  we  become 
yet  more  interested  to  observe  their  efforts  to  get  out  of 
prison,  and  the  blows  with  which  they  weaken  its  doors  or  its 
walls,  and  the  air-holes  which  some  of  those  thinkers  suc- 
ceed in  opening.— Their  efforts  are  clumsy  and  sterile,  like 
those  of  the  theorists  of  the  content  (they  are  to  be  seen 
in  a  repulsive  form  In  the  Philosoph'ie  des  Schonen  of 
Hartmann),  who,  by  adding  stitch  to  stitch,  composed 
a  net  of  "beautiful  contents"  (beautiful,  sublime,  comic, 
tragic,  humouristic,  pathetic,  idyllic,  sentimental,  etc.,  etc.), 

C460] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

in  which  very  coarse  net  they  tried  to  enclose  every  form  of 
reality,   even  that  which  they  had  called  "ugly."     They 
failed  to  perceive  that  their  aesthetic  content,  thus  made  to 
enclose  little  by  little  the  whole  of  reality,  has  no  longer  any 
character  that  distinguishes  it  from  other  contents,  since 
there  is  no  content  beyond  reality;  and  that  therefore  their 
fundamental  theory  was  thus  fundamentally  negated.  These 
contradictory  and  ingenuous  explosions  resemble  those  of 
other  formalistic  theorists  of  the  content  who  maintained  the 
concept  of  an  aesthetic  content,  but  defined  It  as  that  "which 
interests  man,"  and  made  the  interest  relating  to  man  to  lie 
in  his  different  historical  situations-that  is,  relative  to  the 
individual.     This  was  another  way  of  denying  the  Initial 
assumption,  for  it  is  very  clear  that  the  artist  would  not 
produce  art,  did  he  not  interest  himself  In  something  which 
is  the  datum  or  the  problem  of  his  production,  but  that  this 
something  becomes  art  only  because  the  artist,  by  becoming 
interested  in  it,  makes  it  so.-These  are  evasions  of  formal- 
ists, who  after  having  limited  art  to  abstract  beautiful  forms, 
void  of  all  content  and  only  to  be  summed  up  with  contents, 
timidly  introduced  among  beautiful  forms  that  of  the  har- 
mony of  content  with  form;  or  more  resolutely  declared 
themselves  partisans  of  a  sort  of  eclecticism,  which  makes  art 
to  consist  of  a  sort  of  "relation"  of  the  beautiful  content  with 
the  beautiful  form,  and,  with  an  incorrectness  worthy  of 
eclectics,  attributed  to  terms  outside  the  relation  qualities 
which  they  assume  only  within  the  relation. 
*^    For  the  truth  is  really  this:  content  and  form  must  be 
clearly  distinguished  in  art,  but  must  not  be  separately  quali- 
fied as  artistic,  precisely  because  their  relation  only  is  artistic 
—that  is,  their  unity,  understood  not  as  an  abstract,  dead 
unity,  but  as  concrete  and  living,  whichisthat  of  the  synthesis 
a  priori;  and  art  is  a  true  asthetic  synthesis  a  priori  of  feeling 

1:460 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

and  image  in  the  intuition,  as  to  which  it  may  be  repeated 
that  feeling  without  image  is  blind,  and  image  without 
feeling  is  void.  Feeling  and  image  do  not  exist  for  the 
artistic  spirit  outside  the  synthesis;  they  will  have  existence 
from  another  point  of  view  in  another  plane  of  knowledge, 
and  feeling  will  be  the  practical  aspect  of  the  spirit  that 
loves  and  hates,  desires  and  dislikes,  and  the  image  will  be 
the  inanimate  residue  of  art,  the  withered  leaf,  prey  of  the 
wind  of  imagination  and  of  amusement's  caprice.  AH 
this  has  no  concern  with  the  artist  or  the  aesthetician: 
just  as  art  is  no  vain  fancying,  so  is  it  not  tumultuous  pas- 
sionality,  but  the  uplifting  of  that  act  by  means  of  another 
act,  or,  if  it  be  preferred,  the  substitution  of  that  tumult  for 
another  tumult,  that  of  the  longing  to  create  and  to  contem- 
plate for  the  joys  and  the  sorrows  of  artistic  creation.  It 
is  therefore  indifferent,  or  a  question  of  terminological  op- 
portunity, whether  we  should  present  art  as  content  or  as 
form,  provided  it  be  always  recognised  that  the  content  is 
formed  and  the  form  filled,  that  feeling  is  figurative  feeling 
and  the  figure  a  figure  that  is  felt.  And  it  is  only  owing  to 
historical  deference  toward  him  who  better  than  others 
caused  the  concept  of  the  autonomy  of  art  to  be  appreciated, 
and  wished  to  affirm  this  autonomy  with  the  word  "form," 
thus  opposing  alike  the  abstract  theory  of  the  content  of  the 
phllosophisers  and  moralists  and  the  abstract  formalism  of 
the  academicians,— in  deference,  I  say,  to  De  Sanctis,  and 
also  because  of  the  ever  active  polemic  against  the  attempts 
to  absorb  art  in  other  modes  of  spiritual  activity,— that  the 
aesthetic  of  the  intuition  can  be  called  "Esthetic  of  form."  It 
is  useless  to  refute  an  objection  that  certainly  might  be  made 
(but  rather  with  the  sophistry  of  the  advocate  than  with  the 
acuteness  of  the  scientist),  namely,  that  the  aesthetic  of  the 
Intuition  also,  since  it  describes  the  content  of  art  as  feeling 

[462] 


w^. 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

or  state  of  the  soul,  qualifies  it  outside  the  intuition,  and 
seems  to  admit  that  a  content,  which  is  not  feeling  or  a  state 
of  the  soul,  does  not  lend  Itself  to  artistic  elaboration,  and 
is  not  an  esthetic  content.  Feeling,  or  the  state  of  the  soul, 
is  not  a  particular  content,  but  the  whole  universe  seen  sub 
specie  intuitionis;  and  outside  It  there  Is  no  other  content 
conceivable  that  Is  not  also  a  different  form  of  the  intuitive 
form;  not  thoughts,  which  are  the  whole  universe  sub  specie 
cogitationis;  not  physical  things  and  mathematical  beings, 
which  are  the  whole  universe  sub  specie  schematismi  et 
abstractionis;  not  wills,  which  are  the  whole  universe  sub 

specie  volitionis. 

Another   not   less    fallacious   distinction    (to   which   the 
words  "content"  and  "form"  are  also  applied)  separates  in- 
tuition from  expression,  the  Image  from  the  physical  transla- 
tion of  the  Image.  It  places  on  one  side  phantasms  of  feeling, 
images  of  men,  of  animals,  of  landscapes,  of  actions,  of  ad- 
ventures,  and  so  on;  and  on  the  other,  sounds,  tones,  lines, 
colours,  and  so  on;  calling  the  first  the  external,  the  second 
the  internal  element  of  art:  the  art  properly  so-called,  the 
other  technique.     It  is  easy  to  distinguish  Internal  and  exter- 
nal, at  least  In  words,  especially  when  no  minute  enquiry  Is 
made  as  to  the  reasons  and  motives  for  the  distinction,  and 
when  the  distinction  Is  just  thrown  down  there  without  any 
service  being  demanded  of  it;  so  easy  that  by  never  think- 
ing about  It  the  distinction  may  eventually  come  to  seem^  to 
thought  Indubitable.     But  It  becomes  a  different  question 
when,  as  must  be  done  with  every  distinction,  we  pass  from 
the  act  of  distinguishing  to  that  of  establishing  relation  and 
unifying,  because  this  time  we  run  against  desperate  obstacles. 
What  has  here  been  distinguished  cannot  be  unified,  because 
It  has  been  badly  distinguished:  how  can  something  external 
and  extraneous  to  the  Internal  become  united  to  the  internal 

[463] 


/ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

and  express  it?  How  can  a  sound  or  a  colour  express  an  im- 
age without  sound  and  without  colour?  How  can  the  bodi- 
less express  a  body?  How  can  the  spontaneity  of  fancy  and 
of  reflection  and  even  technical  action  coincide  in  the  same 
act?  When  the  intuition  has  been  distinguished  from  the 
expression,  and  the  one  has  been  made  different  from  the 
other,  no  ingenuity  of  terms  can  reunite  them;  all  the  proc- 
esses of  association,  of  habit,  of  mechanicising,  of  forget- 
ting, of  instinctification,  proposed  by  the  psychologists  and 
laboriously  developed  by  them,  allow  the  scissure  to  re- 
appear at  the  end:  on  one  side  the  expression,  on  the  other 
the  image.  And  there  does  not  seem  to  be  any  way  of 
escape,  save  that  of  taking  refuge  in  the  hypothesis  of  a 
mystery  which,  according  to  poetical  or  mathematical  tastes, 
will  assume  the  appearance  of  a  mysterious  marriage  or  of 
a  mysterious  psychophysical  parallelism.  The  first  is  a  par- 
allelism incorrectly  overcome;  the  second,  a  marriage  de- 
ferred to  distant  ages  or  to  the  obscurity  of  the  unknowable. 
But  before  having  recourse  to  mystery  (a  refuge  to  which 
there  is  always  time  to  fly),  we  must  enquire  whether  the 
two  elements  have  been  correctly  distinguished,  and  if  an 
intuition  without  expression  be  conceivable.  It  may  happen 
that  the  thing  is  as  little  existing  and  as  inconceivable  as  a 
soul  without  a  body,  which  has  truly  been  as  much  talked 
of  in  philosophies  as  in  religions,  but  to  have  talked  about 
it  is  not  the  same  thing  as  to  have  experienced  and  con- 
ceived it.  In  reality,  we  know  nothing  but  expressed  in- 
tuitions :  a  thought  is  not  thought  for  us,  unless  it  be  possible 
to  formulate  it  in  words;  a  musical  fancy,  only  when  it 
becomes  concrete  in  sounds;  a  pictorial  image,  only  when  it 
is  coloured.  We  do  not  say  that  the  words  must  necessarily 
be  declaimed  in  a  loud  voice,  the  music  performed,  or  the 
picture  painted  upon  wood  or  canvas;  but  it  is  certain  that 

C464] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

when  a  thought  is  really  thought,  when  it  has  attained  to  the 
maturity  of  thought,  the  words  run  through  our  whole  or- 
ganism, soliciting  the  muscles  of  our  mouth  and  ringing 
internally  in  our  ears;  when  music  is  truly  music,  it  trills  in 
the  throat  and  shivers  in  the  fingers  that  touch  ideal  notes; 
when  a  pictorial  image  is  pictorially  real,  we  are  impreg- 
nated with  lymphs  that  are  colours,  and  maybe,  where  the 
colouring  matters  were  not  at  our  disposition,  we  might  spon- 
taneously colour  surrounding  objects  by  a  sort  of  irradia- 
tion, as  is  said  of  certain  hysterics  and  of  certain  saints,  who 
caused  the  stigmata  upon  their  hands  and  feet  by  means  of  an 
act  of  imagination !  Thought,  musical  fancy,  pictorial  image, 
did  not  indeed  exist  without  expression,  they  did  not  exist  at 
all  previous  to  the  formation  of  this  expressive  state  of  the 
spirit.  To  believe  in  their  pre-existence  is  ingenuousness, 
if  it  be  ingenuous  to  have  faith  in  those  impotent  poets,  paint- 
ers, or  musicians  who  always  have  their  heads  full  of  poetic, 
pictorial,  and  musical  creations,  and  only  fail  to  translate 
them  into  external  form,  either  because,  as  they  say,  they  are 
impatient  of  expression,  or  because  technique  is  not  suffi- 
ciently advanced  to  afford  sufficient  means  for  their  expres- 
sion: many  centuries  ago  it  offered  suflScient  means  to 
Homer,  Pheidias,  and  Apelles,  but  it  does  not  suffice  for 
them,  who,  if  we  are  to  believe  them,  carry  in  their  mighty 
heads  an  art  greater  than  those  others !  Sometimes,  too,  in- 
genuousness arises  from  the  illusion  due  to  keeping  a  bad 
account  with  ourselves  that,  having  imagined,  and  conse- 
quently expressed,  some  few  images,  we  already  possess 
in  ourselves  all  the  other  images  that  must  form  part  of  a 
work,  which  we  do  not  yet  possess,  as  well  as  the  vital  nexus 
that  should  connect  them,  which  is  not  yet  formed  and  there- 
fore is  not  expressed. 

Art,  understood  as  intuition,  according  to  the  concept  that 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

I  have  exposed,  having  denied  the  existence  of  a  physical 
world  outside  of  it,  which  it  looks  upon  as  simply  a  con- 
struction of  our  intellect,  does  not  know  what  to  do  with  the 
parallelism  of  the  thinking  substance  and  of  substance  ex- 
tended in  space,  and  has  no  need  to  promote  impossible  mar- 
riages, because  its  thinking  substance-or,  better,  its  intuitive 
act— is  perfect  in  itself,  and  is  that  same  fact  which  the  in- 
tellect afterwards  constructs  as  extended.  And  inasmuch  as 
an  image  without  expression  is  inconceivable,  by  just  so  much 
is  an  image  which  shall  be  also  expression  conceivable,  and 
indeed  logically  necessary;  that  is,  which  shall  be  really  an 
Image.  If  we  take  from  a  poem  its  metre,  its  rhythm,  and 
its  words,  poetical  thought  does  not,  as  some  opine,  remain 
behind:  there  remains  nothing.  The  poetry  is  born,  like 
those  words,  that  rhythm,  and  that  metre.  Nor  could  ex- 
pression be  compared  with  the  epidermis  of  organisms,  un- 
less it  be  said  (and  perhaps  this  may  not  be  false  even  in 
physiology)  that  all  the  organism  in  every  cell's  cell  is  also 

epidermis. 

I  should,  however,  be  wanting  to  my  methodological  con- 
victions and  to  my  intention  of  doing  justice  to  errors  (and 
I  have  already  done  justice  to  the  distinction  of  form  and 
content  by  demonstrating  the  truth  at  which  they  aimed  and 
failed  to  grasp),  were  I  not  to  indicate  what  truth  may  also 
be  active  at  the  base  of  the  false  distinction  of  the  indistin- 
guishable, intuition  and  expression.  Fancy  and  technique  are 
rationally  distinguished,  though  not  as  elements  of  art;  and 
they  are  related  and  united  between  themselves,  though  not 
in  the  field  of  art,  but  in  the  wider  field  of  the  spirit  in  its 
totality.  Technical  or  practical  problems  to  be  solved,  diffi- 
culties to  be  vanquished,  are  truly  present  to  the  artist,  and 
there  Is  truly  something  which,  without  being  really  physical, 
and  being,  like  everything  real,  a  spiritual  act,  can  be  meta- 

[4663 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

phoricised  as  physical  in  respect  to  the  intuition.  What  is 
this  something?  The  artist,  whom  we  have  left  vibrating 
with  expressed  images  which  break  forth  by  infinite  channels 
from  his  whole  being,  is  a  whole  man,  and  therefore  also  a 
practical  man,  and  as  such  takes  measures  against  losing  the 
result  of  his  spiritual  labour,  and  in  favour  of  rendering 
possible  or  easy,  for  himself  and  for  others,  the  reproduc- 
tion of  his  images;  hence  he  engages  in  practical  acts  which 
assist  that  work  of  reproduction.  These  practical  acts  are 
guided,  as  are  all  practical  acts,  by  knowledge,  and  for  this 
reason  are  called  technical;  and,  since  they  are  practical,  they 
are  distinguished  from  contemplation,  which  is  theoretical, 
and  seem  to  be  external  to  it,  and  are  therefore  called  phys- 
ical:  and  they  assume  this  name  the  more  easily  in  so  far 
as  they  are  fixed  and  made  abstract  by  the  intellect.  Thus 
writing  and  phonography  are  united  with  words  and  music, 
canvas  and  wood  and  walls  covered  with  colours,  stone  cut 
and  Incised,  iron  and  bronze  and  other  metals  melted  and 
moulded  to  certnin  shapes  by  sculpture  and  architecture. 
So  distinct  among  themselves  are  the  two  forms  of  activ- 
ity that  it  is  possible  to  be  a  great  artist  with  a  bad  tech- 
nique, a  poet  who  corrects  the  proofs  of  his  verses  badly,  an 
architect  who  makes  use  of  unsuitable  material  or  does  not 
attend  to  statics,  a  painter  who  uses  colours  that  deteriorate 
rapidly:  examples  of  these  weaknesses  are  so  frequent  that 
it  is  not  worth  while  to  cite  any  of  them.  But  what  is  Im- 
possible is  to  be  a  great  poet  who  writes  verses  badly,  a  great 
painter  who  does  not  give  tone  to  his  colours,  a  great  archi- 
tect who  does  not  harmonise  his  lines,  a  great  composer  who 
does  not  harmonise  his  notes;  and,  in  short,  a  great  artist 
who  cannot  express  himself.  It  has  been  said  of  Raphael 
that  he  would  have  been  a  great  painter  even  if  he  had  not 
possessed  hands;  but  certainly  not  that  he  would  have  been 

1:467] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

a  great  painter  if  the  sense  of  design  and  colour  had  been 

wanting  to  him. 

And  (be  it  noted  in  passing,  for  I  must  condense  as  I  pro- 
ceed)   this  apparent  transformation  of  the  Intuitions  Into 
physical   things-altogether   analogous  with   the   apparent 
transformation  of  wants  and  economic  labour  into  things 
and  into  merchandise-also  explains  how  people  have  come 
to  talk  not  only  of  "artistic  things"  and  of  "beautiful  things/' 
but  also  of  "a  beautiful  of  nature."     It  is  evident  that,  be- 
sides the  Instruments  that  are  made  for  the  reproduction  of 
images,  objects  already  existing  can  be  met  with,  whether 
produced  by  man  or  not,  which  perform  such  a  service- 
that  is  to  say,  are  more  or  less  adapted  to  fixing  the  memory 
of  our  intuitions;  and  these  things  take  the  name  of  "natural 
beauties,"  and  exercise  their  fascination  only  when  we  know 
how  to  understand  them  with  the  same  soul  with  which  the 
artist  or  artists  have  taken  and  appropriated  them,  giving 
value  to  them  and  indicating  the   "point  of  view"   from 
which  we  must  look  at  them,  thus  connecting  them  with  their 
own  intuitions.     But  the  always  imperfect  adaptability,  the 
fugitive  nature,  the  mutability  of  "natural  beauties"  also 
justify  the  Inferior  place  accorded  to  them,  compared  with 
beauties  produced  by  art.    Let  us  leave  It  to  rhetoricians  or 
madmen  to  affirm  that  a  beautiful  tree,  a  beautiful  river,  a 
sublime  mountain,  or  even  a  beautiful  horse  or  a  beautiful 
human  figure,  are  superior  to  the  chisel-stroke  of  Michel- 
angelo or  the  verse  of  Dante;  but  let  us  say,  with  greater 
propriety,  that  "Nature"  is  stupid  compared  with  Art,  and 
that  she  is  "mute,"  If  man  does  not  make  her  speak. 

A  third  distinction,  which  also  labours  to  distinguish  the 
indistinguishable.  Is  attached  to  the  concept  of  the  aesthetic 
expression,  and  divides  It  into  two  moments  of  expres- 
sion abstractly  considered,  propriety  and  beauty  of  expres- 

[468] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

slon,  or  adorned  expression,  founding  upon  these  the  classi- 
fication of  two  orders  of  expression,  naked  and  ornate. 
This  is  a  doctrine  of  which  traces  may  be  found  in  all  the 
various  domains  of  art,  but  which  has  not  been  developed  in 
any  one  of  them  to  the  same  extent  as  In  that  of  words, 
where  it  bears  a  celebrated  name  and  Is  called  "Rhetoric," 
and  has  had  a  very  long  history,  from  the  Greek  rhetoricians 
to  our  own  day.  It  persists  in  the  schools,  In  treatises, 
and  even  In  aesthetics  of  scientific  pretensions,  not  to  mention 
in  comm.on  belief  (as  is  natural),  though  in  our  day  it  has 
lost  much  of  its  primitive  vigour.  Men  of  lofty  intellect 
have  accepted  it,  or  let  it  live,  for  centuries,  owing  to  the 
force  of  Inertia  or  of  tradition;  the  few  rebels  have  hardly 
ever  attempted  to  reduce  their  rebellion  to  a  system  and 
to  cut  out  the  error  at  Its  roots.  The  Injury  done  by 
Rhetoric,  with  its  idea  of  "ornate"  as  differing  from,  and 
of  greater  value  than,  "naked"  speech,  has  not  been  limited 
solely  to  the  circle  of  aesthetic,  but  has  appeared  also  in  criti- 
cism, and  even  in  literary  education,  because,  just  as  It  was 
incapable  of  explaining  perfect  beauty,  so  It  was  adapted  to 
provide  an  apparent  justification  for  vitiated  beauty,  and  to 
encourage  writing  in  an  inflated,  affected,  and  improper 
form.  However,  the  division  which  it  introduces  and  on 
which  it  relies  Is  a  logical  contradiction,  because,  as  is  easy 
to  prove,  it  destroys  the  concept  Itself,  which  It  undertakes 
to  divide  into  moments,  and  the  objects,  which  It  undertakes 
to  divide  into  classes.  An  appropriate  expression,  if  appro- 
priate, is  also  beautiful,  beauty  being  nothing  but  the  deter- 
mination of  the  image,  and  therefore  of  the  expression;  and 
If  it  be  wished  to  indicate  by  calling  it  naked  that  there  is 
something  wanting  which  should  be  present,  then  the  expres- 
sion is  inappropriate  and  deficient,  either  it  is  not  or  is  not 
yet  expression.  On  the  other  hand,  an  ornate  expression,  if  it 

1:469:] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

be  expressive  in  every  part,  cannot  be  called  ornate,  but  as 
naked  as  the  other,  and  as  appropriate  as  the  other;  if  it 
contain  inexpressive,  additional,  extrinsic  elements,  it  is  not 
beautiful,  but  ugly,  it  is  not  or  is  not  yet  expression;  to  be  so, 
it  must  purify  itself  of  external  elements  (as  the  other  must 
be  enriched  with  the  elements  that  are  wanting). 

Expression  and  beauty  are  not  two  concepts,  but  a  single 
concept,  which  It  is  permissible  to  designate  with  either 
synonymous  vocable:  artistic  fancy  is  always  corporeal,  but 
it  is  not  obese,  being  always  clad  with  itself  and  never 
charged  with  anything  else,  or  "ornate."  Certainly  a  prob- 
lem was  lurking  beneath  this  falsest  of  distinctions,  the  neces- 
sity of  making  a  distinction;  and  the  problem  (as  can  be 
deduced  from  certain  passages  in  Aristotle,  and  from  the 
psychology  and  gnoseology  of  the  Stoics,  and  as  we  see  it, 
intensified  in  the  discussions  of  the  Italian  rhetoricians  of  the 
seventeenth  century)  was  concerned  with  the  relations  be- 
tween thought  and  fancy,  philosophy  and  poetry,  logic  and 
aesthetic  (dialectic  and  rhetoric,  or,  as  was  still  said  at  the 
time,  the  "open"  and  the  closed  "fist").  "Naked"  expres- 
sion referred  to  thought  and  to  philosophy,  "ornate"  ex- 
pression to  fancy  and  to  poetry.  But  It  Is  not  less  true  that 
this  problem  as  to  the  distinction  between  the  two  forms  of 
the  theoretical  spirit  could  not  be  solved  in  the  field  of  one  of 
them,  intuition  or  expression,  where  nothing  will  ever  be 
found  but  fancy,  poetry,  aesthetic;  and  the  undue  introduc- 
tion of  logic  will  only  project  there  a  deceitful  shadow,  which 
will  darken  and  hamper  intelligence,  depriving  it  of  the  view 
of  art  in  Its  fulness  and  purity,  without  giving  It  that  of  lo- 
giclty  and  of  thought. 

But  the  greatest  injury  caused  by  the  rhetorical  doctrine 
of  "ornate"  expression  to  the  theoretical  systematlsation  of 
the  forms  of  the  human  spirit,  concerns  the  treatment  of  lan- 

[470] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

guage,  because,  granted  that  we  admit  naked  and  simply 
grammatical  expressions,  and  expressions  that  are  ornate  or 
rhetorical,  language  becomes  an  aggregate  of  naked  expres- 
sions and  is  handed  over  to  grammar,  and,  as  an  ulterior 
consequence  (since  grammar  finds  no  place  in  rhetoric  and 
aesthetic),    to    logic,    where    the    subordinate    office    of    a 
semeiotic  or  ars  significandi  Is  assigned  to  It.     Indeed,  the 
logistic  conception  of  language  Is  closely  united  and  proceeds 
pari  passu  with  the  rhetorical  doctrine  of  expression;  they 
appeared  together  In  Hellenic  antiquity,  and  they  still  exist, 
though  disputed,  In  our  time.     Rebellions  against  the  logl- 
clsm  of  the  doctrine  of  language  have  rarely  appeared,  and 
have  had  as  little  efficacy  as  those  against  rhetoric;  and  only 
In  the  romantic  period  (traversed  by  VIco  a  century  before) 
has  a  lively  consciousness  been  formed  by  certain  thinkers 
as  to  the  fantastic  or  metaphoric  nature  of  language,  and  Its 
closer  connection  with  poetry  than  with  logic.     Yet  since  a 
more  or  less  Inartistic  Idea  of  art  persisted  even  among  the 
best   (conceptualism,  moralism,  hedonism,  etc.),  there  re- 
mained a  very  powerful  Impediment  to  the  identification  oft 
language  and  art.     This  Identification  appears  to  be  as  un- 
avoidable as  it  is  easy,  having  established  the  concept  of 
art  as  intuition  and  of  intuition  as  expression,  and  there- 
fore Implicitly  its  identity  with  language:  always  assuming 
that  language  be  conceived  In  its  full  extension,  without  ar- 
bitrary   restrictions    to    so-called    articulate    language    and 
without  arbitrary  exclusion  of  tonic,  mimetic,  and  graphic; 
and  in  all  its  intension— that  is,  taken  In  its  reality,  which  Is 
the   act  of  speaking  itself,   without   falsifying  It  with  the 
abstractions  of  grammars  and  vocabularies,   and  with  the 
foolish  belief  that  man  speaks  with  the  vocabulary  and  with 
grammar.     Man  speaks  at  every  instant  like  the  poet,  be- 
cause, like  the  poet,  he  expresses  his  impressions  and  his 

[470 


*!j! 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

feelings  In  the  form  called  conversational  or  familiar,  which 
Is  not  separated  by  any  abyss  from  the  other  forms  called 
prosaic,  poetlc-prosalc,  narrative,  epic,  dialogue,  dramatic, 
lyric,  mellc,  song,  and  so  on.  And  If  It  do  not  displease  man 
in  general  to  be  considered  poet  and  always  poet  (as  he  Is  by 
force  of  his  humanity),  It  should  not  displease  the  poet  to 
be  united  with  common  humanity,  because  this  union  alone 
explains  the  power  which  poetry,  understood  in  the  loftiest 
and  In  the  narrowest  sense,  wields  over  all  human  souls. 
Were  poetry  a  language  apart,  a  "language  of  the  gods," 
men  would  not  understand  It;  and  If  It  elevate  them,  It  ele- 
vates them  not  above,  but  within  themselves :  true  democracy 
and  true  aristocracy  coincide  In  this  field  also.  Coincidence 
of  art  and  language,  which  Implies,  as  Is  natural,  coincidence 
of  aesthetic  and  of  philosophy  of  language,  definable  the  one 
by  the  other  and  therefore  identical,— this  I  ventured  to 
place  twelve  years  ago  in  the  title  of  a  treatise  of  mine  on 
iEsthetIc,  which  has  truly  not  failed  of  Its  effect  upon  many 
linguists  and  philosophers  of  i^sthetlc  In  Italy  and  outside 
Italy,  as  Is  shewn  by  the  copious  "literature"  which  It  has 
produced.  This  Identification  will  benefit  studies  on  art  and 
poetry  by  purifying  them  of  hedonistic,  moralistic,  and  con- 
ceptualistic  residues,  still  to  be  found  in  such  quantity  in  lit- 
erary and  artistic  criticism.  But  the  benefit  which  it  will  con- 
fer upon  linguistic  studies  will  be  far  more  Inestimable,  for  It 
is  urgent  that  they  should  be  disencumbered  of  physiological, 
psychological,  and  psychophysiological  methods,  now  the 
fashion,  and  be  freed  from  the  ever  returning  theory  of  the 
conventional  origin  of  language,  which  has  the  Inevitable 
correlative  of  the  mystical  theory  as  its  inevitable  reaction. 
It  will  no  longer  be  necessary  to  construct  absurd  parallel- 
Isms  even  for  language,  or  to  promote  mysterious  nuptials 
between  sign  and  Image:  when  language  Is  no  longer  con- 

[472;] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

ceived  as  a  sign,  but  as  an  image  which  is  significant— that  Is, 
a  sign  In  Itself,  and  therefore  coloured,  sounding,  singing, 
articulate.  The  significant  Image  Is  the  spontaneous  work 
of  the  human  spirit,  whereas  the  sign,  wherewith  man  agrees 
with  man,  presupposes  language;  or  If  It  be  wished,  never- 
theless, to  explain  language  by  signs,  it  recommends  us  to 
call  upon  God,  as  upon  the  giver  of  the  first  signs— that  is,  to 
presuppose  language  In  another  way,  by  consigning  it  to  the 
Unknowable. 

I  shall  conclude  my  account  of  the  prejudices  relating 
to  art  with  that  one  of  them  which  Is  most  usual,  because  it 
Is  mingled  with  the  daily  life  of  criticism,  namely,  history  of 
art:  prejudice  of  the  possibility  of  distlnguishng  several 
or  many  particular  forms  of  art,  each  one  determinable 
in  Its  own  particular  concept  and  within  its  limits,  and  fur- 
nished with  Its  proper  laws.  This  erroneous  doctrine  Is  em- 
bodied in  two  systematic  series,  one  of  which  is  known  as 
the  theory  of  literary  and  artistic  kinds  (lyric,  drama,  ro- 
mance, epic  and  romantic  poem,  idyll,  comedy,  tragedy; 
sacred,  civil-life,  familiar,  from  life,  still-life,  landscape, 
flower  and  fruit  painting;  heroic,  funereal,  costume,  sculp- 
ture; church,  operatic,  chamber  music;  civil,  military,  eccle- 
siastic architecture,  etc.,  etc.),  and  the  other  as  theory  of 
the  arts  (poetry,  painting,  sculpture,  architecture,  music, 
art  of  the  actor,  gardening,  etc.,  etc.).  One  of  these  some- 
times figures  as  a  subdivision  of  another.  This  prejudice, 
of  which  It  is  easy  to  trace  the  origin,  has  its  first  notable 
monuments  In  Hellenic  culture,  and  persists  In  our  days. 
Many  sesthetlcians  still  write  treatises  on  the  aesthetic  of  the 
tragic,  the  comic,  the  lyric,  the  humorous,  and  aesthetics  of 
painting,  of  music,  or  of  poetry  (these  last  are  still  called 
by  the  old  name  of  "poetics")  ;  and,  what  Is  worse  (though 
but  little  attention  Is  paid  to  these  aesthetlclans  who  are  Im- 

1:4733 


■■*. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

pelled  to  write  through  solitary  dilettantism  or  academic 
profession),  critics,  in  judging  works  of  art,  have  not  alto- 
gether abandoned  the  habit  of  judging  them  according  to 
the  genus  or  particular  form  of  art  to  which,  according  to/ 
the  above  aestheticians,  they  should  belong;  and,  instead 
of  clearly  stating  whether  a  work  be  beautiful  or  ugly,  they 
proceed  to  reason  their  impressions,  saying  that  it  well 
observes,  or  wrongly  violates,  the  laws  of  the  drama,  or  of 
romance,  or  of  painting,  or  of  bas-relief.  It  is  also  very 
common  in  all  countries  to  treat  artistic  and  literary  his- 
tory as  history  of  kinds,  and  to  present  the  artists  as  culti- 
vating this  or  that  kind;  and  to  divide  the  work  of  an  artist, 
which  always  has  unity  of  development,  whatever  form  it 
take,  whether  lyric,  romance  or  drama,  into  as  many  com- 
partments as  there  are  kinds;  so  that  Lodovico  Ariosto,  for 
example,  appears  now  among  the  cultivators  of  the  Latin 
poetry  of  the  Renaissance,  now  among  the  authors  of  the 
first  Latin  satires,  now  among  those  of  the  first  comedies, 
now  among  those  who  brought  the  poem  of  chivalry  to  per- 
fection: as  though  Latin  poetry,  satire,  comedy,  and  poem 
were  not  always  the  same  poet,  Ariosto,  in  his  experiments, 
in  his  logic,  and  in  the  manifestations  of  his  spiritual  devel- 
opment. 

It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  the  theory  of  kinds  and  of  the 
arts  has  not  had,  and  does  not  now  possess,  its  own  internal 
dialectic  and  its  autocriticism,  or  irony,  according  as  we  may 
please  to  call  it;  and  no  one  is  ignorant  that  literary  history 
is  full  of  these  cases  of  an  established  style,  against  which  an 
artist  of  genius  offends  in  his  work  and  calls  forth  the  repro- 
bation of  the  critics:  a  reprobation  which  does  not,  however, 
succeed  in  suffocating  the  admiration  for,  and  the  popularity 
of,  his  work,  so  that  finally,  when  it  is  not  possible  to  blame 
the  artist  and  it  is  not  wished  to  blame  the  critic  of  kinds,  the 

[474] 


/ 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

matter  ends  with  a  compromise,  and  the  kind  is  enlarged 
or  accepts  beside  it  a  new  kind,  like  a  legitimated  bastard, 
and  the  compromise  lasts,  by  force  of  inertia,  until  a  new 
work  of  genius  comes  to  upset  again  the  fixed  rule.     An 
irony  of  the  doctrine  is  also  the  impossibility,  in  which  the 
theoreticians  find  themselves,  of  logically  fixing  the  boun- 
daries between  the  kinds  and  the  arts :  all  the  definitions  that 
they  have  produced,  when  examined  rather  more  closely, 
either  evaporate  in  the  general  definition  of  art,  or  shew 
themselves  to  be  an  arbitrary  raising  to  the  rank  of  kinds 
and  rules  particular  works  of  art  irreducible  to  rigorous 
logical  terms.     Absurdities  resulting  from  the  effort  to  de- 
termine  rigorously  what  is   indeterminable,   owing  to   the 
contradictory  nature  of  the  attempt,  are  to  be  found  even 
among  the  great  ones,  even  in  Lessing,  who  arrives  at  this 
extravagant  conclusion,  that  painting  represents  "bodies" : 
bodies,  not  actions  and  souls,  not  the  action  and  the  soul  of 
the  painter !    They  are  also  to  be  found  among  the  questions 
that  logically  arise  from  that  illogic:  thus,  a  definite  field 
having  been  assigned  to  every  kind  and  to  every  art,  what 
kind  and  what  art  is  superior?    Is  painting  superior  to  sculp- 
ture, drama  to  lyric?     And  again,  the  forces  of  art  having 
been  thus  divided,  would  it  not  be  advisable  to  reunite  them 
in  a  type  of  work  of  art  which  shall  drive  away  other  forces, 
as  a  coalition  of  armies  drives  away  a  single  army:  will  not 
the  work,  for  instance,  in  which  poetry,  music,  scenic  art,  dec- 
oration, are  united,  develop  a  greater  aesthetic  force  than  a 
Lied  of  Goethe  or  a  drawing  of  Leonardo?  These  are  ques- 
tions, distinctions,  judgments,  and  definitions  which  arouse 
the  revolt  of  the  poetic  and  artistic  sense,  which  loves  each 
work  for  itself,  for  what  it  is,  as  a  living  creature,  individual 
and  incomparable,  and  knows  that  each  work  has  its  individ- 
ual law.     Hence  has  arisen  the  disagreement  between  the 

[475] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

affirmative  judgment  of  artistic  souls  and  the  -g^tive  one 
of  professional  critics,  between  the  negafon  of  the  former 
and  the  affirmation  of  the  latter;  and  the  professional  critics 
pass  for  pedants,  not  without  good  reason,  a  though  artistic 
souls  are  in  their  turn  "disarmed  prophets"-that  is,  inca- 
pable of  reasoning  and  of  deducing  the  correct  theory  im- 
manent in  their  judgments,  and  of  opposing  it  to  the 
pedantic  theory  of  their  adversaries. 

That  correct  theory  is  precisely  an  aspect  of  the  concep- 
tion of  art  as  intuition,  or  lyrical  intuition;  and,  since  every 
work  of  art  expresses  a  state  of  the  soul,  and  the  state  of  the 
soul  is  individual  and  always  new,  the  intuition  implies  in- 
finite intuitions,  which  it  is  impossible  to  place  in  pigeonholes 
as  kinds,  unless  these  be  infinite  pigeonholes,  and  therefore 
not  pigeonholes  of  kinds,  but  of  intuitions.     And  since,  on 
the  other  hand,  individuality  of  intuition  implies  individu- 
ality of  expression,  and  a  picture  is  distinct  from  another 
picture,  not  less  than  from  a  poem,  and  picture  and  poem 
are  not  of  value  because  of  the  sounds  that  beat  the  air 
and  the  colours  refracted  by  the  light,  but  because  of  what 
they  can  tell  to  the  spirit,  in  so  far  as  they  enter  into  it,  it  is 
useless  to  have  recourse  to  abstract  means  of  expression  to 
construct   the    other    series    of   kinds    and    classes:    which 
amounts  to  saying  that  any  theory  of  the  division  of  the  arts 
is  without  foundation.    The  kind  or  class  is  in  this  case  one 
only,  art  itself  or  the  intuition,  whereas  single  works  of  art 
are  infinite :  all  are  original,  each  one  incapable  of  bemg 
translated  into  the  other  (since  to  translate,  to  translate  with 
artistic  skill,  is  to  create  a  new  work  of  art) ,  each  one  uncon- 
trolled by  the  intellect.    No  intermediate  element  interposes 
itself  philosophically  between  the  universal  and  the  particu- 
lar, no  series  of  kinds  or  species,  of  generalia.    Neither  the 
artist  who  produces  art,  nor  the  spectator  who  contemplates 

n  476:1 


i 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

it,  has  need  of  anything  but  the  universal  and  the  individual, 
or,  better,  the  universal  individuated:  the  universal  artistic 
activity,  which  is  all  contracted  or  concentrated  in  the  repre- 
sentation of  a  single  state  of  the  soul. 

Nevertheless,  if  the  pure  artist  and  the  pure  critic,  and 
also  the  pure  philosopher,  are  not  occupied  with  generalia, 
with  classes  or  kinds,  these  retain  their  utility  on  other 
grounds ;  and  this  utility  is  the  true  side  of  those  erroneous 
theories,  which  I  will  not  leave  without  mention.  It  is  cer- 
tainly useful  to  construct  a  net  of  generalia,  not  for  the  pro- 
duction of  art,  which  is  spontaneous,  nor  for  the  judgment  of 
it,  which  is  philosophical,  but  to  collect  and  to  some  extent 
circumscribe  the  infinite  single  intuitions,  for  the  use  of  the 
attention  and  of  memory,  in  order  to  group  together  to  some 
extent  the  innumerable  particular  works  of  art.  These  classes 
will  always  be  formed,  as  is  natural,  either  by  means  of  the 
abstract  imagination  or  the  abstract  expression,  and  therefore 
as  classes  of  states  of  the  soul  (literary  and  artistic  kinds) 
and  classes  of  means  of  expression  (art).  Nor  does  it  avail 
to  object  here  that  the  various  kinds  and  arts  are  arbitrarily 
distinguished,  and  that  the  general  dichotomy  is  itself  ar- 
bitrary; since  it  is  admitted  without  difficulty  that  the  proce- 
dure is  certainly  arbitrary,  but  the  arbitrariness  becomes 
innocuous  and  useful  from  the  very  fact  that  every  preten- 
sion of  being  a  philosophical  principle  and  criterion  for  the 
judgment  of  art  is  removed  from  it.  Those  kinds  and  classes 
render  easy  the  knowledge  of  art  and  education  in  art,  offer- 
ing to  the  first,  as  it  were,  an  index  of  the  most  important 
works  of  art,  to  the  second  a  collection  of  most  important 
information  suggested  by  the  practice  of  art.  Every- 
thing depends  upon  not  confounding  hints  with  reality, 
and  hypothetic  warnings  or  imperatives  with  categoric 
imperatives:    a   confusion   which   multiple   and   continuous 

1:4773 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

temptations  are  certainly  apt  to  induce,  whence  it  is  easy  to 
be  dominated  by  them,  but  not  at  all  inevitable.  Books  of 
Hterary  origin,  rhetoric,  grammar  (with  their  divisions  into 
parts  of  speech  and  their  grammatical  and  syntactical  laws), 
of  the  art  of  musical  composition,  of  metre,  of  painting,  and 
so  on,  contain  the  principal  hints  and  collections  of  precepts. 
Tendencies  toward  a  definite  expression  of  art  are  manifested 
in  them  either  only  in  a  secondary  manner,  — and  in  this  case 
it  is  art  that  is  still  abstract,  art  in  elaboration  (the  poetic  arts 
of  classicism  or  romanticism,  purist  or  popular  grammars, 
etc.),— or  as  tendencies  toward  the  philosophical  comprehen- 
sion of  their  argument,  and  then  they  give  rise  to  the  divi- 
sions into  kinds  and  into  arts,  an  error  which  I  have  criti- 
cised: an  error  which,  by  its  contradictions,  opens  the  way  to 
the  true  doctrine  of  the  individuality  of  art. 

Certainly  this  doctrine  produces  at  first  sight  a  sort  of 
bewilderment:  Individual,  original,  untranslatable,  unclassi- 
fiable  Intuitions  seem  to  escape  the  rule  of  thought,  which 
would  seem  unable  to  dominate  them  without  placing  them 
in  relation  with  one  another;  and  this  appears  to  be  pre- 
cisely forbidden  by  the  doctrine  that  has  been  developed, 
which  has  rather  the  air  of  being  anarchic  or  anarchoid  than 
liberal  and  llberlstlc. 

A  little  piece  of  poetry  is  aesthetically  equal  to  a  poem;  a 
tiny  little  picture  or  a  sketch,  to  an  altar  picture  or  an 
affresco;  a  letter  is  a  work  of  art,  no  less  than  a  romance; 
even  a  fine  translation  is  as  original  as  an  original  work! 
These  propositions  will  be  indubitable,  because  logically 
deduced  from  verified  premises;  they  will  be  true,  although 
(and  this  is  without  doubt  a  merit)  paradoxical,  or  at  va- 
riance with  vulgar  opinions:  but  will  they  not  be  in  want  of 
some  complement?  There  must  be  some  mode  of  arrang- 
ing,   subordinating,    connecting,    understanding,    and   domi- 

1:478] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

nating  the  dance  of  the  intuitions,  if  we  do  not  wish  to  be- 
wilder our  wits  with  them. 

And  there  Is  indeed  such  a  mode,  for  when  we  denied 
theoretic  value  to  abstract  classifications  we  did  not  intend  to 
deny  it  to  that  genetic  and  concrete  classification  which  is 
not.  Indeed,  a  "classification"  and  is  called  History.  In  his- 
tory each  work  of  art  takes  the  place  that  belongs  to  It— that 
and  no  other:  the  ballade  of  Guido  Cavalcanti  and  the  son- 
net of  Cecco  Angioleri,  which  seem  to  be  the  sigh  or  the 
laughter  of  an  instant;  the  ''Cornmedia''  of  Dante,  which 
seems  to  resume  in  itself  a  millennium  of  the  human  spirit; 
the  "Maccheronee"  of  Merlin  Cocaio  at  the  close  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages,  with  their  noisy  laughter;  the  elegant  Cinquecento 
translation  of  the  JEneid  by  Annlbal  Caro;  the  dry  prose  of 
Sarpi;  and  the  Jesuitic-polemical  prose  of  Danielo  Bartoll: 
without  the  necessity  of  judging  that  to  be  not  original  which 
is  original,  because  it  lives;  that  to  be  small  which  is  neither 
great  nor  small,  because  it  escapes  measure:  or  we  can  say 
great  and  small.  If  we  will,  but  metaphorically,  with  the  In- 
tention of  manifesting  certain  admirations  and  of  noting 
certain  relations  of  Importance  (quite  other  than  arithmetic 
or  geometrical).  And  in  history,  which  is  ever  becoming 
richer  and  more  definite,  not  in  pyramids  of  empirical  con- 
cepts, which  become  more  and  more  empty  the  higher  they 
rise  and  the  more  subtle  they  become,  is  to  be  found  the 
link  of  all  works  of  art  and  of  all  intuitions,  because  In 
history  they  appear  organically  connected  among  them- 
selves, as  successive  and  necessary  stages  of  the  development 
of  the  spirit,  each  one  a  note  of  the  eternal  poem  which  har- 
monises all  single  poems  In  Itself. 


[479] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


III 

THE  PLACE  OF  ART  IN  THE  SPIRIT  AND 
IN  HUMAN  SOCIETY 


THE  dispute  as  to  the  dependence  or  independence  of 
art  was  at  its  hottest  in  the  romantic  period,  when  the 
motto  of  "art  for  art's  sake"  was  coined,  and  as  its  apparent 
antithesis  that  other  of  "art  for  life" ;  and  from  that  time 
it  was  discussed,  to  tell  the  truth,  rather  among  men  of  let- 
ters or  artists  than  philosophers.  It  has  lost  interest  in 
our  day,  fallen  to  the  rank  of  a  theme  with  which  begin- 
ners amuse  or  exercise  themselves,  or  of  an  argument  for 
academic  orations.  However,  even  previous  to  the  romantic 
period,  and  indeed  in  the  most  ancient  documents  containing 
reflections  upon  art,  are  to  be  found  traces  of  it;  and  philos- 
ophers of  .Esthetic  themselves,  even  when  they  appear  to 
neglect  it  (and  they  do  indeed  neglect  it  in  its  vulgar  form), 
really  do  consider  it,  and  indeed  may  be  said  to  think  of  noth- 
ing else.  Because,  to  dispute  as  to  the  dependence  or  the 
independence,  the  autonomy  or  the  heteronomy  of  art  does 
not  mean  anything  but  to  enquire  w^hether  art  is  or  is  not, 
and,  if  it  is,  what  it  is.  An  activity  whose  principle  depends 
upon  that  of  another  activity  is,  effectively,  that  other  ac- 
tivity, and  retains  for  itself  an  existence  that  is  only  putative 
or  conventional:  art  which  depends  upon  morality,  upon 
pleasure,  or  upon  philosophy  is  morality,  pleasure,  or  phi- 
losophy; it  is  not  art.  If  it  be  held  not  to  be  dependent,  it 
will  be  advisable  to  investigate  the  foundation  of  its  inde- 
pendence—that is  to  say,  how  art  is  distinguished  from 
morality,   from  pleasure,   from  philosophy,   and   from   all 

[480] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

other  things;  what  it  is— and  to  posit  whatever  it  may  be  as 
truly  autonomous  and  independent.  It  may  chance  to  be 
asserted,  on  the  other  hand,  by  those  very  people  who  affirm 
the  concept  of  the  original  nature  of  art,  that  although  it 
preserve  its  peculiar  nature,  yet  its  place  is  below  another 
activity  of  superior  dignity,  and  (as  used  at  one  time  to  be 
said)  that  it  is  a  handmaid  to  ethic,  a  minister  to  politics,  and 
a  dragoman  to  science;  but  this  would  only  prove  that  there 
are  people  who  have  the  habit  of  contradicting  themselves 
or  of  allowing  discord  among  their  thoughts:  dazed  folk 
whose  existence  truly  does  not  call  for  any  sort  of  proof.  For 
our  part,  we  shall  take  care  not  to  fall  into  so  dazed  a  condi- 
tion; and  having  already  made  clear  that  art  is  distinguished 
from  the  physical  world  and  from  the  practical,  moral,  and 
conceptual  activity  as  intuition,  we  shall  give  ourselves  no 
further  anxiety,  and  shall  assume  that  with  that  first  dem- 
onstration we  have  also  demonstrated  the  independence  of 

art. 

But  another  problem  is  implicit  in  the  dispute  as  to 
dependence  or  independence;  of  this  I  have  hitherto  pur- 
posely not  spoken,  and  I  shall  now  proceed  to  examine  it. 
Independence  is  a  concept  of  relation,  and  in  this  aspect  the 
only  absolute  independence  is  the  Absolute,  or  absolute  rela- 
tion; every  particular  form  and  concept  is  independent  on 
one  side  and  dependent  on  another,  or  both  independent  and 
dependent.  Were  this  not  so,  the  spirit,  and  reality  in  gen- 
eral, would  be  either  a  series  of  juxtaposed  absolutes,  or 
(which  amounts  to  the  same  thing)  a  series  of  juxtaposed 
nullities.  The  independence  of  a  form  implies  the  matter  to 
which  it  is  applied,  as  we  have  already  seen  in  the  develop- 
ment of  the  genesis  of  art  as  an  intuitive  formation  of  a  sen- 
timental or  passionate  material;  and  in  the  case  of  absolute 
independence,  since  all  material  and  aliment  would  be  want- 

[481;] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

ing  to  it,  form  itself,  being  void,  would  become  nullified.  But 
since  the  recognised  independence  prevents  our  thinking  one 
activity  as  submitted  to  the  principle  of  another,  the  de- 
pendence must  be  such  as  to  guarantee  the  independence. 
But  this  would  not  be  guaranteed  in  the  hypothesis  that  one 
activity  should  be  made  to  depend  upon  another,   in  the 
same  w^ay  as  that  other  upon  it,   like   two   forces  which 
counterbalance  each  other,  and  of  which  the  one  does  not 
conquer  the  other;  because,  if  it  do  not  conquer  it,  we  have 
reciprocal  arrest  and  static;  if  it  conquer  the  other,  pure  and 
simple  dependence,  which  has  already  been  excluded.  Hence, 
considering  the  matter  in  general,  it  appears  that  there  is  no 
other  way  of  thinking  the  simultaneous  independence  and 
dependence  of  the  various  spiritual  activities  than  that  of 
conceiving  them   in   the   relation   of  condition   and   condi- 
tioned,   in  which   the   conditioned   surpasses   the   condition 
and  presupposes  it,  and,  becoming  again  in  its  turn  condition, 
gives  rise  to  a  new  conditioned,  thus  constituting  a  series  of 
developments.     No  other  defect  could  be  attributed  to  this 
series  than  that  the  first  of  the  series  would  be  a  condition 
without   a   previous   conditioned,   and  the  last  conditioned 
which  would  not  become  in  its  turn  condition,  thus  causing  a 
double  rupture  of  the  law  of  development  itself.     Even  this 
defect  is  healed  if  the  last  be  made  the  condition  of  the  first 
and  the  first  the  condition  of  the  last;  that  is  to  say,  if  the 
series  be  conceived  as  reciprocal  action,  or,  better  (and  aban- 
doning all  naturalistic  phraseology),  as  a  circle.     This  con- 
ception seems  to  be  the  only  way  out  of  the  difi^culties  with 
which  the  other  conceptions  of  the  spiritual  life  are  striving, 
both   that   which   makes    it   consist   of   an    assemblage   of 
independent  and  unrelated  faculties  of  the  soul,  or  of  inde- 
pendent and  unrelated  ideas  of  value,  and  that  which  sub- 
ordinates all  these  in  one  and  resolves  them  in  that  one, 

C482] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

which  remains  immobile  and  impotent;  or,  more  subtly,  con- 
ceives them  as  necessary  grades  of  a  linear  development 
which  leads  from  an  irrational  first  to  a  last  that  would  wish 
to  be  most  rational,  but  is,  however,  superrational,  and  as 
such  also  irrational. 

But  it  will  be  opportune  not  to  insist  upon  this  somewhat 
abstract  scheme,  and  rather  consider  the  manner  in  which  it 
becomes  actual  in  the  life  of  the  spirit,  beginning  with  the 
aesthetic  spirit.     For  this  purpose  we  shall  again  return  to 
the  artist,  or  man-artist,  who  has  achieved  the  process  of 
liberation  from  the  sentimental  tumult  and  has  objectified  it 
in  a  lyrical  image— that  is,  has  attained  to  art.     He  finds 
his  satisfaction  in  this  image,  because  he  has  worked  and 
moved  in  this  direction :  all  know  more  or  less  the  joy  of  the 
complete  expression  which  we  succeed  in  giving  to  our  own 
psychical  impulses,  and  the  joy  in  those  of  others,  which  are 
also  ours,  when  we  contemplate  the  works  of  others,  which 
are  to  some  extent  ours,  and  which  we  make  ours.    But  is  the 
satisfaction   definite?     Was   only  the   man-artist   impelled 
toward  the  image?    Toward  the  image  and  toward  another 
at  the  same  time;  toward  the  image  in  so  far  as  he  is  man- 
artist,  toward  another  in  so  far  as  he  is  artist-man;  toward 
the  image  on  the  first  plane,  but,  since  the  first  plane  is  con- 
nected with  the  second  and  third  planes,  also  toward  the  sec- 
ond and  third,  although  immediately  toward  the  first  and 
mediately  toward  the  second  and  third  ?  And  now  that  he  has 
reached  the  first  plane,  the  second  appears  immediately  be- 
hind it,  and  becomes  a  direct  aim  from  indirect  that  it  was 
before;  and  a  new  demand  declares  itself,  a  new  process 
begins.     Not,  be  it  well  observed,  that  the  intuitive  power 
gives  place  to  another  power,  as  though  taking  its  turn  of 
pleasure  or  of  service;  but  the  intuitive  power  itself— or, 
better,  the  spirit  itself,  which  at  first  seemed  to  be,  and  in  a 

1:483] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

certain  sense  was,  all  intuition— develops  in  itself  the  new 
process,  which  comes  forth  from  the  vitals  of  the  first.  "One 
soul  is  not  kindled  at  another"  in  us  (I  shall  avail  myself 
again  on  this  occasion  of  Dante's  words),  but  the  one  soul, 
which  first  is  all  collected  in  one  single  "virtue,"  and  which 
"seems  to  obey  no  longer  any  power,"  satisfied  in  that  virtue 
alone  (in  the  artistic  image),  finds  in  that  virtue,  together 
with  its  satisfaction,  its  dissatisfaction:  its  satisfaction,  be- 
cause it  gives  to  the  soul  all  that  it  can  give  and  is  expected 
from  it;  its  dissatisfaction,  because,  having  obtained  all  that, 
and  having  satiated  the  soul  with  its  ultimate  sweetness,— 
"what  is  asked  and  thanked  for,"— satisfaction  is  sought  for 
the  new  need  caused  by  the  first  satisfaction,  which  was  not 
able  to  arise  without  that  first  satisfaction.  And  we  all  know 
also,  from  continual  experience,  the  new  want  which  lurks  be- 
hind the  formation  of  images.  Ugo  Foscolo  has  a  love-affair 
with  the  Countess  Arese;  he  knows  with  what  sort  of  love 
and  with  what  sort  of  woman  he  has  to  do,  as  can  be  proved 
from  the  letters  he  wrote,  which  are  to  be  read  in  print. 
Nevertheless,  during  the  moments  that  he  loves  her,  that 
woman  is  his  universe,  and  he  aspires  to  possess  her  as  the 
highest  beatitude,  and  in  the  enthusiasm  of  his  admiration 
would  render  the  mortal  woman  immortal,  would  transfig- 
ure this  earthly  creature  into  one  divine  for  the  time  to  come, 
achieving  for  her  a  new  miracle  of  love.     And  indeed  he 
already  finds  her  rapt  to  the  empyrean,  an  object  of  worship 
and  of  prayers: 

And  thou,  divine  one,  living  in  my  hymns, 
Shalt  receive  the  vows  of  my  Insubrian  descendants. 

The  ode  AW  arnica  risanata  would  not  have  taken  shape  in 
the  spirit  of  Foscolo  unless  this  metamorphosis  of  love  had 
been  desired  and  longed  for  with  the  greatest  seriousness 

1:484] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

(lovers  and  even  philosophers,  if  they  have  been  in  love, 
can  witness  that  these  absurdities  are  seriously  desired)  ; 
and  the  images  with  which  Foscolo  represents  the  fasci- 
nation of  his  goddess-friend,  so  rich  in  perils,  would  not 
have  presented  themselves  so  vividly  and  so  spontaneously 
as  they  did.     But  what  was  that  impetus  of  the  soul  which 
has  now  become  a  magnificent  lyrical  representation?    Was 
all  of  Foscolo,  the  soldier,  the  patriot,  the  man  of  learn- 
ing, moved  with  so  many  spiritual  needs,  expressed  in  that 
aspiration?     Did  it  act  so  energetically  within  him  as  to 
be  turned  into  action,  and  to  some  extent  to  give  direction  to 
his  practical  life  ?    Foscolo,  who  had  not  been  wanting  of  in- 
sight in  the  course  of  his  love,  as  regards  his  poetry  also  from 
time  to  time  became  himself  again  when  the  creative  tumult 
was  appeased,  and  again  acquired  full  clearness  of  vision. 
He  asks  himself  what  he  really  did  will,  and  what  the  woman 
deserved.   It  may  be  that  a  slight  suspicion  of  scepticism  had 
Insinuated  itself  during  the  formation  of  the  image,  if  our 
ears  be  not  deceived  in  seeming  to  detect  here  and  there  in 
the  ode  some  trace  of  elegant  Irony  toward  the  woman,  and 
of  the  poet  toward  himself.    This  would  not  have  happened 
in  the  case  of  a  more  ingenuous  spirit,  and  the  poetry  would 
have  flowed  forth  quite  ingenuously.     Foscolo  the  poet, 
having   achieved  his   task  and  therefore  being  no   longer 
poet,  now  wishes  to  know  his  real  condition.    He  no  longer 
forms  the  image,  because  he  has  formed  It;  he  no  longer 
fancies,  but  perceives  and  narrates  ("that  woman,"  he  will 
say  later  of  the  "divine  one,"  "had  a  piece  of  brain  Instead 
of  a  heart")  ;  and  the  lyrical  Image  changes,  for  him  and 
for  us.  Into  an  autobiographical  extract,  or  perception. 

With  perception  we  have  entered  a  new  and  very  wide 
spiritual  field;  and,  truly,  words  are  not  strong  enough  to 
satirise  those  thinkers  who,  now  as  In  the  past,  confound 

[4853 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Image  and  perception,  making  of  the  Image  a  perception  (a 
portrait  or  copy  or  Imitation  of  nature,  or  history  of  the 
individual  and  of  the  times,  etc.),  and,  worse  still,  of  the 
perception  a  kind  of  image  apprehensible  by  the  ''senses." 
But  perception  Is  neither  more  nor  less  than  a  complete 
judgment,  and  as  judgment  Implies  an  image  and  a  cate- 
gory  or   system   of  mental   categories   which   must   domi- 
nate the  Image    (reality,  quality,   etc.);  and  in  respect  of 
the  Image,   or  a  priori  esthetic  synthesis   of   feeling   and 
fancy  (intuition),  It  is  a  new  synthesis,  of  representation  and 
category,  of  subject  and  predicate,  the  a  priori  logical  syn- 
thesis, of  which  it  would  be  fitting  to  repeat  all  that  has  been 
said  of  the  other,  and,  above  all,  that  In  It  content  and  form, 
representation  and  category,  subject  and  predicate,  do  not 
appear  as  two  elements  united  by  a  third,  but  the  representa- 
tion appears   as   category,   the  category  as   representation, 
in  indivisible  unity:  the  subject  is  subject  only  in  the  predi- 
cate, and  the  predicate  Is  predicate  only  in  the  subject.    Nor 
is  perception  a  logical  act  among  other  logical  acts,  or  the 
most  rudimentary  and  imperfect  of  them;  for  he  who  is  able 
to  extract  from  It  all  the  treasures  It  contains  would  have  no 
need  to  seek  beyond  it  for  other  determinations  of  loglcity, 
because  consciousness  of  what  has  really  happened,  which  in 
Its  eminently  literary  forms  takes  the  name  of  history,  and 
consciousness  of  the  universal,  which  in  Its  eminent  forms 
takes  the  name  of  system  or  philosophy,  spring  from  per- 
ception, which  Is  itself  this  synthetic  gemination:  and  philos- 
ophy and  history  constitute  the  superior  unity,  which  phi- 
losophers have  discovered,  for  no  other  reason  than  the  syn- 
thetic connection  of  the  perceptive  judgment,  whence  they 
are  born   and   In  which   they  live,   identifying  philosophy 
and  history,  and  which  men  of  good  sense  discover  In  their 
own  way,  though  they  always  observe  that  ideas  suspended 

1:4863 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

In  air  are  phantoms,  are  facts  which  occur— real  facts— what 
alone  is  true,  and  alone  worthy  of  being  known.  Finally, 
perception  (the  variety  of  perceptions)  explains  why  the 
human  intellect  strives  to  emerge  from  them  and  to  Impose 
upon  them  a  world  of  types  and  of  laws,  governed  by  mathe- 
matical measures  and  relations;  which  is  the  reason  of  the 
formation  of  the  natural  sciences  and  mathematics,  in  addi- 
tion to  philosophy  and  history. 

It  is  not  here  my  task  to  give  a  sketch  of  Logic,  as  I  have 
been  or  am  giving  a  sketch  of  Esthetic;  and  therefore,  re- 
fraining from  determining  and  developing  the  theory  of 
Logic,  and  Intellectual,  perceptive,  and  historical  knowledge, 
I  shall  resume  the  thread  of  the  argument,  not  proceeding 
on  this  occasion  from  the  artistic  and  Intuitive  spirit,  but 
from  the  logical  and  historical,  which  has  surpassed  the 
intuitive  and  has  elaborated  the  image  in  perception.  Does 
the  spirit  find  satisfaction  in  this  form?  Certainly:  all 
know  the  very  lively  satisfactions  of  knowledge  and  sci- 
ence; all  know,  from  experience,  the  desire  which  takes 
possession  of  one  to  discover  the  countenance  of  reality, 
concealed  by  our  Illusions;  and  even  though  that  counte- 
nance be  terrible,  the  discovery  is  never  unaccompanied  with 
profound  pleasure,  due  to  the  satisfaction  of  possessing  the 
truth.  But  does  such  satisfaction  differ  In  being  complete  and 
final  from  that  afforded  by  art?  Does  not  dissatisfaction 
perhaps  appear  side  by  side  with  the  satisfaction  of  know- 
ing reality?  This,  too,  is  most  certain;  and  the  dissatisfac- 
tion of  having  known  manifests  Itself  (as  indeed  all  know  by 
experience)  In  the  desire  for  action:  it  Is  well  to  know  the 
real  state  of  affairs,  but  we  must  know  it  in  order  to  act;  by 
all  means  let  us  know  the  world,  but  in  order  that  we  may 
change  it:  tenipus  cognoscendi,  tempus  destruendi,  tempus 
renovandi.     No  man  remains  stationary  in  knowledge,  not 

C487: 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

even   sceptics   or  pessimists   who,   in   consequence   of  that 
knowledge,  assume  this  or  that  attitude,  adopt  this  or  that 
form  of  life.     And  that  very  fixing  of  acquired  knowledge, 
that  "retaining  "  after  "understanding,''  without  which  (still 
quoting  Dante)  "there  can  be  no  science,"  the  formation  of 
types  and  laws  and  criteria  of  measurement,  the  natural  sci- 
ences and  mathematics,  to  which  I  have  just  referred,  were  a 
surpassing  of  the  act  of  theory  by  proceeding  to  the  act  of 
action.    And  not  only  does  everyone  know  from  experience, 
and  can  always  verify  by  comparison  with  facts,  that  this  is 
indeed  so;  but  on  consideration,  it  is  evident  that  things 
could  not  proceed  otherwise.    There  was  a  time  (which  still 
exists  for  not  a  few  unconscious  Platonicians,  mystics,  and 
ascetics)  when  it  was  believed  that  to  know  was  to  elevate 
the  soul  to  a  god,  to  an  Idea,  to  a  world  of  ideas,  to  an 
Absolute  placed  above  the  phenomenal  human  world;  and 
it  was  natural  that  when  the  soul,  becoming  estranged  from 
itself  by   an   effort   against   nature,   had   attained   to   that 
superior  sphere,   it  returned  confounded  to   earth,   where 
it  could    remain    perpetually    happy    and    inactive.      That 
thought,  which  was  no  longer  thought,  had  for  counterpoise 
a  reality  that  was  not  reality.     But  since  (with  VIco,  Kant, 
Hegel,   and  other  hereslarchs)    knowledge  has  descended 
to   earth,   and  is  no  longer  conceived   as   a  more  or  less 
pallid  copy   of   an   immobile   reality,   but   remains   always 
human,  and  produces,  not  abstract  ideas,  but  concrete  con- 
cepts which  are  syllogisms  and  historical  judgments,  percep- 
tions of  the  real,  the  practical  is  no  longer  something  that 
represents  a  degeneration  of  knowledge,  a  second  fall  from 
heaven  to  earth,  or  from  paradise  to  hell,  nor  something 
that  can  be  resolved  upon  or  abstained  from,  but  is  implied 
in  theory  Itself,  as  a  demand  of  theory;  and  as  the  theory, 
so  the  practice.     Our  thought  is  historical  thought  of  a  hls- 

1:4883 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

torical  world,  a  process  of  development  of  a  development; 
and  hardly  has  a  qualification  of  reality  been  pronounced, 
when  the  qualification  is  already  of  no  value,  because  It  has 
itself  produced  a  new  reality,  which  awaits  a  new  qualifica- 
tion. A  new  reality,  which  Is  economic  and  moral  life, 
turns  the  Intellectual  Into  the  practical  man,  the  politician, 
the  saint,  the  man  of  business,  the  hero,  and  elaborates  the 
a  priori  logical  synthesis  into  the  practical  a  priori  synthesis; 
but  this  is  nevertheless  always  a  new  feeling,  a  new  desiring, 
a  new  willing,  a  new  passlonality.  In  which  the  spirit  can 
never  rest,  and  solicits  above  all  as  new  material  a  new  in- 
tuition, a  new  lyricism,  a  new  art. 

And  thus  the  last  term  of  the  series  reunites  Itself  (as  I 
stated  at  the  beginning)  with  the  first  term,  the  circle  Is 
closed,  and  the  passage  begins  again:  a  passage  which  Is  a 
return  of  that  already  made,  whence  the  VIchian  concept 
expressed  in  the  word  "return,"  now  become  classic.  But 
the  development  which  I  have  described  explains  the  Inde- 
pendence of  art,  and  also  the  reasons  for  its  apparent  de- 
pendence, in  the  eyes  of  those  who  have  conceived  erroneous 
doctrines  (hedonistic,  moralistic,  conceptuallstic,  etc.),  which 
I  have  criticised  above,  though  noting,  In  the  course  of  criti- 
cism, that  In  each  one  of  them  could  be  found  some  reference 
to  truth.  If  It  be  asked,  which  of  the  various  activities  of  the 
spirit  Is  real,  or  If  they  be  all  real,  we  must  reply  that  none  of 
them  is  real;  because  the  only  reality  Is  the  activity  of  all 
these  activities,  which  does  not  reside  in  any  one  of  them  in 
particular:  of  the  various  syntheses  that  we  have  one  after 
the  other  distinguished,  — aesthetic  synthesis,  logical  synthe- 
sis, practical  synthesis,— the  only  real  one  Is  the  synthesis  of 
syntheses,  the  Spirit,  which  Is  the  true  Absolute,  the  actus 
puriis.  But  from  another  point  of  view,  and  for  the  same 
reason,  all  are  real.  In  the  unity  of  the  spirit.  In  the  eternal 

n4893 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

going  and  coming,  which  is  their  eternal  constancy  and 
reality.  Those  who  see  in  art  the  concept,  history,  mathe- 
matics, the  type,  morahty,  pleasure,  and  everything  else, 
are  right,  because  these  and  all  other  things  are  contained 
within  it,  owing  to  the  unity  of  the  spirit;  indeed,  the  pres- 
ence in  it  of  them  all,  and  the  energetic  unilaterality  alike 
of  art  as  of  any  other  particular  form,  tending  to  reduce  all 
activities  to  one,  explains  the  passage  from  one  form  to  an- 
other, the  completing  of  one  form  in  the  other,  and  it  ex- 
plains development.  But  those  same  people  are  wrong 
(owing  to  the  distinction,  which  is  the  inseparable  mo- 
ment of  unity)  in  the  way  that  they  find  them  all  equally 
abstract  or  equally  confused.  Because  concept,  type,  num- 
ber, measure,  morality,  utility,  pleasure  and  pain  are  in  art 
as  art,  either  antecedent  or  consequent;  and  therefore 
are  there  presupposed  (sunk  and  forgotten  there,  to  adopt 
a  favourite  expression  of  De  Sanctis)  or  as  presentiments. 
Without  that  presumption,  without  that  presentiment,  art 
would  not  be  art;  but  it  would  not  be  art  either  (and 
all  the  other  forms  of  the  spirit  would  be  disturbed  by  it), 
if  it  were  desired  to  impose  those  values  upon  art  as  art, 
which  is  and  never  can  be  other  than  pure  intuition.  The  ar- 
tist will  always  be  morally  blameless  and  philosophically  un- 
censurable,  even  though  his  art  should  indicate  a  low  moral- 
ity and  philosophy :  in  so  far  as  he  is  an  artist,  he  does  not  act 
and  does  not  reason,  but  poetises,  paints,  sings  and,  in  short, 
expresses  himself:  were  we  to  adopt  a  different  criterion,  we 
should  return  to  the  condemnation  of  Homeric  poetry,  in  the 
manner  of  the  Italian  critics  of  the  Seicento  and  the  French 
critics  of  the  time  of  the  fourteenth  Louis,  who  turned  up 
their  noses  at  what  they  termed  "the  manners*'  of  those  in- 
ebriated, vociferating,  violent,  cruel  and  ill-educated  heroes. 
The  criticism  of  the  philosophy  underlying  Dante's  poem 

[4903 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

is  certainly  possible,  but  that  criticism  will  enter  the  sub- 
terranean parts  of  the  art  of  Dante  as  though  by  under- 
mining, and  will  leave  intact  the  soil  on  the  surface,  which 
is  the  art;  Nicholas  Macchiavelli  will  be  able  to  destroy  the 
Dantesque  political  ideal,  recommending  neither  an  emperor 
nor  an  international  pope  as  greyhound  of  liberation,  but  a 
tyrant  or  a  national  prince;  but  he  will  not  have  eradicated 
that  aspiration  from  Dante's  poem.  In  like  manner,  it 
may  be  advisable  not  to  show  and  not  to  permit  to  boys 
and  young  men  the  reading  of  certain  pictures,  romances, 
and  plays;  but  this  recommendation  and  act  of  forbidding 
will  be  limited  to  the  practical  sphere  and  will  affect,  not 
the  works  of  art,  but  the  books  and  canvases  which  serve  as 
instruments  for  the  reproduction  of  the  art,  which,  as  prac- 
tical works,  paid  for  in  the  market  at  a  price  equivalent 
to  so  much  corn  or  gold,  can  also  themselves  be  shut 
up  in  a  cabinet  or  cupboard,  and  even  be  burnt  in  a  "pyre 
of  vanities,"  a  la  Savonarola.  To  confound  the  various 
phases  of  development  in  an  ill-understood  impulse  for 
unity,  to  make  morality  dominate  art,  when  and  so  far  as 
art  surpasses  morality,  or  art  dominate  science,  when  and 
so  far  as  science  dominates  or  surpasses  art,  or  has  already 
been  itself  dominated  and  surpassed  by  life:  this  Is  what 
unity  well  understood,  which  is  also  rigorous  distinction, 
should  prevent  and  reject. 

And  It  should  prevent  and  reject  it  also,  because  the  estab- 
lished order  of  the  various  stages  of  the  circle  makes  it 
possible  to  understand  not  only  the  independence  and  the 
dependence  of  the  various  forms  of  the  spirit,  but  also 
the  preservation  of  this  order  of  the  one  in  the  other.  It 
Is  well  to  mention  one  of  the  problems  which  present  them- 
selves in  this  place,  or  rather  to  return  to  it,  for  I  have 
already  referred  to  It  fugltlvely:  the  relation  between  fancy 

[490 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

and  logic,  art  and  science.     This  problem  is  substantially 
the  same  as  that  which  reappears  as  the  search  for  the 
distinction  between  poetry   and  prose;  at  any  rate,   since 
(and  the  discovery  was  soon  made,  for  it  is  already  found 
in  the  "Poetic"  of  Aristotle)    it  was  recognised  that  the 
distinction  cannot  be  drawn  as  between  the  metrical  and 
the   unmetrical,   since  there  can  be  poetry  in  prose    (for 
example,  romances  and  plays)  and  prose  in  metre  (for  ex- 
ample, didascalic  and  philosophic  poems) .    We  shall  there- 
fore conduct  it  with  the  more  profound  criterion,  which  is 
that  of  image  and  perception,  of  intuition  and  judgment, 
which  has  already  been  explained;  poetry  will  be  the  ex- 
pression of  the  image,  prose  that  of  the  judgment  or  concept. 
But  the  two  expressions,  in  so  far  as  expressions,  are  of 
the  same  nature,  and  both  possess  the  same  aesthetic  value; 
therefore,  if  the  poet  be  the  lyrist  of  his  feelings,  the  prosaist 
is  also  the  lyrist  of  his  feelings,— that  is,  poet,— though  it  be 
of  the  feelings  which  arise  in  him  from  or  in  his  search  for 
the  concept.     And  there  is  no  reason  whatever  for  recog- 
nising the  quality  of  poet  to  the  composer  of  a  sonnet  and  of 
refusing  it  to  him  who  has  composed  the  "Metaphysic,"  the 
"Somma  Teologia,"  the  ''Scienza  Nuova,"  the  'Thenome- 
nology  of  the  Spirit,"  or  told  the  story  of  the  Pelopon- 
nesian  wars,  of  the  politics  of  Augustus  and  Tiberius,  or 
the  "universal  history":  in  all  of  those  works  there  is  as 
much  passion  and  as  much  lyrical  and  representative  force 
as  in  any  sonnet  or  poem.     For  all  the  distinctions  with 
which  it  has  been  attempted  to  reserve  the  poetic  quality  for 
the  poet  and  to  deny  it  to  the  prosaist,  are  like  those  stones, 
carried  with  great  effortto  the  top  of  a  steep  mountain,  which 
fall  back  again  into  the  valley  with  ruinous  results.     Yet 
there  is  a  just  apparent  difference,  but  in  order  to  determine 
it,  poetry  and  prose  must  not  be  separated  in  the  manner  of 

[492] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

naturalistic  logic,  like  two  co-ordinated  concepts  simply  op- 
posed the  one  to  the  other:  we  must  conceive  them  in  devel- 
opment as  a  passage  from  poetry  to  prose.     And  since  the 
poet,  in  this  passage,  not  only  presupposes  a  passionate  ma- 
terial, owing  to  the  unity  of  the  spirit,  but  preserves  the 
passionality  and  elevates  it  to  the  passionality  of  a  poet 
(passion  for  art),  so  the  thinker  or  prosaist  not  only  pre- 
serves that  passionality  and  elevates  it  to  a  passionality  for 
science,  but  also  preserves  the  intuitive  force,  owing  to  which 
his  judgments  come  forth  expressed  together  with  the  pas- 
sionality that  surrounds  them,  and  therefore  they  retain  their 
artistic  as  well  as  their  scientific  character.    We  can  always 
contemplate  this   artistic  character,   assuming  its  scientific 
character,  or  separating  It  therefrom  and  from  the  criticism 
of  science,  In  order  to  enjoy  the  aesthetic  form  which  it  has 
assumed;  and  this  is  also  the  reason  why  science  belongs, 
though  In  different  aspects,  to  the  history  of  science  and  to 
the  history  of  literature,  and  why,  among  the  many  different 
kinds  of  poetry  enumerated  by  the  rhetoricians,  it  would  at 
the  least  be  capricious  to  refuse  to  number  the  "poetry  of 
prose,"  which  is  sometimes  far  purer  poetry  than  much  pre- 
tentious poetry  of  poetry.    And  It  will  be  well  that  I  should 
mention  again  a  new  problem  of  the  same  sort,  to  which  I 
have  already  alluded  In  passing:  namely,  the  connection  be- 
tween art  and  morality,  which  has  been  denied  to  be  imme- 
diate Identification  of  the  one  with  the  other,  but  which  must 
now  be  reasserted,  and  to  note  that,  since  the  poet  preserves 
the  passion  for  his  art  when  free  from  every  other  passion- 
ality, so  he  preserves  In  his  art  the  consciousness  of  duty 
(duty  toward  art),  and  every  poet.  In  the  act  of  creation, 
Is  moral,  because  he  accomplishes  a  sacred  function. 

And  finally,  the  order  and  logic  of  the  various  forms 
of  the  spirit,  making  the  one  necessary  for  the  other  and 

1:493  n 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

therefore  all  necessary,  reveal  the  folly  of  negating  the 
one  in  the  name  of  the  other:  the  error  of  the  philoso- 
pher (Plato),  or  of  the  moralist  (Savonarola  or  Proud- 
hon),  or  of  the  naturalist  and  practical  man  (there  are 
so  many  of  these  that  I  do  not  quote  names  I),  who  refute 
art  and  poetry;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  the  error  of  the 
artist  who  rebels  against  thought,  science,  practice,  and 
morality,  as  did  so  many  "romantics"  in  tragedy,  and  as  do 
so  many  "decadents"  in  comedy  in  our  day.  These  are  er- 
rors and  follies  to  which  also  we  can  afford  a  caress  in  pass- 
ing (always  keeping  in  view  our  plan  of  not  leaving  anyone 
quite  disconsolate),  for  it  is  evident  that  they  have  a  posi- 
tive content  of  their  own  in  their  very  negativity,  as  rebellion 
against  certain  false  concepts  or  certain  false  manifestations 
of  art  and  of  science,  of  practice  and  of  morality  (Plato,  for 
example,  combating  the  idea  of  poetry  as  "wisdom";  Savo- 
narola, the  not  austere  and  therefore  corrupt  civilisation  of 
the  Italian  Renaissance  so  soon  to  be  dissolved),  etc.  But 
it  is  madness  to  attempt  to  prove  that  were  philosophy 
without  art,  it  would  exist  for  itself,  because  it  would  be 
without  what  conditions  its  problems,  and  air  to  breathe 
would  be  taken  from  it,  in  order  to  make  it  prevail  alone 
against  art;  and  that  practice  is  not  practice,  when  it  is  not 
set  in  motion  and  revived  by  aspirations,  and,  as  they  say, 
by  "ideals,"  by  "dear  imagining,"  which  is  art;  and,  on  the 
other  hand,  that  art  without  morality,  art  that  usurps  with 
the  decadents  the  title  of  "pure  beauty,"  and  before  which 
is  burnt  incense,  as  though  it  were  a  diabolic  idol  worshipped 
by  a  company  of  devils,  owing  to  the  lack  of  morality  in  the 
life  from  which  it  springs  and  which  surrounds  it,  is  decom- 
posed as  art,  and  become  caprice,  luxury,  and  charlatanry; 
the  artist  no  longer  serves  it,  but  it  serves  the  private  and 
futile  interests  of  the  artist  as  the  vilest  of  slaves. 

114943 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Nevertheless,  objection  has  been  taken  to  the  idea  of  the 
circle  in  general,  which  affords  so  much  aid  in  making  clear 
the  connection  of  dependence  and  independence  of  art  and 
of  the  other  spiritual  forms,  on  the  ground  that  it  thinks  the 
work  of  the  spirit  as  a  tiresome  and  melancholy  doing  and 
undoing,  a  monotonous  turning  upon  itself,  not  worth  the 
trouble  of  effecting.     Certainly  there  is  no  metaphor  but 
leaves  some  side  open  to  parody  and  caricature;  but  these, 
when  they  have  gladdened  us  for  the  moment,  oblige  us  to 
return  seriously  to  the  thought  expressed  in  the  metaphor. 
And  the  thought  is  not  that  of  a  sterile  repetition  of  going 
and  coming,  but  a  continuous  enrichment  in  the  going  of  the 
going  and  the  coming  of  the  coming.    The  last  term,  which 
again  becomes  the  first,  is  not  the  old  first,  but  presents  itself 
with  a  multiplicity  and  precision  of  concepts,  with  an  experi- 
ence of  life  lived,  and  even  of  works  contemplated,  which 
was  wanting  to  the  old  first  term;  and  it  affords  material  for 
a  more  lofty,  more  refined,  more  complex  and  more  mature 
art.    Thus,  instead  of  being  a  perpetually  even  revolution, 
the  idea  of  the  circle  is  nothing  but  the  true  philosophical 
idea  of  progress,  of  the  perpetual  growth  of  the  spirit  and 
of  reality  in  itself,  where  nothing  is  repeated,  save  the  form 
of  the  growth;  unless  it  should  be  objected  to  a  man  walk- 
ing, that  his  walking  is  a  standing  still,  because  he  always 
moves  his  legs  in  the  same  time ! 

Another  objection,  or  rather  another  movement  of  rebel- 
lion against  the  same  idea,  is  frequently  to  be  observed, 
though  not  clearly  self-conscious:  the  restlessness,  existing 
in  some  or  several,  the  endeavour  to  break  and  to  surpass 
the  circularity  that  is  a  law  of  life,  and  to  attain  to  a  region 
of  repose  from  movement,  so  full  of  anxiety;  withdrawn 
henceforward  from  the  ocean  and  standing  upon  the  shore, 
to  turn  back  and  contemplate  the  tossing  billows.    But  I  have 

11495  3 


PR 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

already  had  occasion  to  state  of  what  this  repose  consists: 
an  effectual  negation  of  reality,  beneath  the  appearance  of 
elevation  and  sublimation;  and  it  is  certainly  attained,  but  is 
called  death;  the  death  of  the  individual,  not  of  reality, 
which  does  not  die,  and  is  not  afflicted  by  its  own  motion,  but 
enjoys  it.     Others  dream  of  a  spiritual  form,  in  which  the 
circle  is  dissolved,   a   form  which  should  be  Thought  of 
thought,  unity  of  the  Theoretical  and  of  the  Practical,  Love, 
God,  or  whatever  other  name  it  may  bear;  they  fail  to  per- 
ceive that  this  thought,  this  unity,  this  Love,  this  God,  al- 
ready exists  in  and  for  the  circle,  and  that  they  are  uselessly 
repeating   a   search   already   completed,    or   are   repeating 
metaphorically  what  has   already  been   discovered,   in  the 
myth  of  another  world,  where  the  very  drama  of  the  only 
world  should  be  repeated. 

I  have  hitherto  outlined  this  drama,  as  it  truly  is,  ideal 
and  extratemporal,  employing  such  terms  as  first  and  second, 
solely  with  a  view  to  verbal  convenience  and  in  order  to 
indicate  logical  order:— ideal   and  extratemporal,  because 
there  is  not  a  moment  and  there  is  not  an  individual  in  whom 
it  is  not  all  performed,  as  there  is  no  particle  of  the  uni- 
verse unbreathed  upon  by  the  Spirit  of  God.    But  the  ideal, 
indivisible  moments  of  the  ideal  drama  can  be  seen  as  if 
divided  In  empirical  reality,  like  an  impure  and  embodied 
symbol  of  the  ideal  distinction.     Not  that  they  are  really 
divided  (ideality  is  the  true  reality),  but  they  appear  to  be 
so  empirically  to  him  who  looks  upon  them  with  a  view  to 
classification,  for  he  possesses  no  other  way  of  determining 
in  the  types  the  individuality  of  the  facts  that  have  attracted 
his  attention,  save  that  of  enlarging  and  of  exaggerating 
ideal  distinctions.    Thus  the  artist,  the  philosopher,  the  his- 
torian, the  naturalist,  the  mathematician,  the  man  of  busi- 
ness,   the    good   man,    seem   to   live    separated    from    one 

1:496] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

another;    and   the   spheres   of   artistic,    philosophical,   his- 
torical, naturalistic,  mathematical  culture,  and  those  of  eco- 
nomic and  ethic  and  of  the  many  institutions  connected  with 
them,  to  be  distinct  from  one  another;  and  finally,  the  life 
of  humanity  is  divided  into  epochs  in  the  ages,  in  which 
one  or  the  other  or  only  some  of  the  ideal  forms  are  repre- 
sented: epochs  of  fancy,  of  religion,  of  speculation,  of  natu- 
ral sciences,  of  industrialism,  of  political  passions,  of  moral 
enthusiasms,   of  pleasure   seeking,   and   so   on;   and  these 
epochs  have  their  more  or  less  perfect  goings  and  comings. 
But  the  eye  of  the  historian  discovers  the  perpetual  differ- 
ence  in  the  uniformity  of  individuals,   of  classes,   and  of 
epochs;  and  the  philosophical  consciousness,  unity  in  differ- 
ence; and  the  philosopher-historian  sees  ideal  progress  and 
unity,  as  also  historical  progress,  in  that  difference. 

But  let  us,  too,  speak  as  empiricists  for  a  moment   (so 
that  since  empiricism  exists  it  may  be  of  some  use),  and  let 
us  ask  ourselves  to  which  of  the  specimens  belongs  our  epoch, 
or  that  from  which  we  have  just  emerged;  what  is  its  pre- 
vailing characteristic?     To  this  there  will  be  an  immediate 
and  universal  reply  that  it  is  and  has  been  naturalistic  in 
culture,  industrial  in  practice;  and  philosophical  greatness 
and  artistic  greatness  will  at  the  same  time  both  be  denied  to 
It.    But  since  (and  here  empiricism  is  already  in  danger)  no 
epoch   can  live  without  philosophy  and  without  art,   our 
epoch,  too,  has  possessed  both,  so  far  as  it  was  capable  of 
possessing  them.     And  its  philosophy  and  its  art— the  for- 
mer mediately,  the  latter  immediately— find  their  places  in 
thought,  as  documents  of  what  our  epoch  has  truly  been  in 
its  complexity  and  interests;  by  interpreting  these,  we  shall 
be  able  to  clear  the  ground  upon  which  must  arise  our  duty. 
Contemporary  art,  sensual,  insatiable  in  its  desire  for  en- 
joyments,   furrowed    with    turbid    attempts    at    an    ill-un- 

1:4973 


■( 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

derstood  aristocracy,  which  reveals  itself  as  a  voluptuous 
ideal  or  an  ideal  of  arrogance  and  of  cruelty,  sometimes 
sighing  for  a  mysticism  which  is  also  egoistic  and  volup- 
tuous, without  faith  in  God  and  without  faith  in  thought, 
incredulous  and  pessimistic,  — and  often  very  powerful  In  its 
rendering  of  such  states  of  the  soul:  this  art,— vainly  con- 
demned by  moralists,— when  understood  In  its  profound 
motives  and  in  its  genesis,  asks  for  action,  which  will  cer- 
tainly not  be  directed  toward  condemning,  repressing,  or 
rearranging  art,  but  toward  directing  life  more  energetically 
toward  a  more  healthy  and  more  profound  morality,  which 
will  be  mother  of  a  nobler  art,  and,  I  would  also  say,  of  a 
nobler  philosophy.  A  more  noble  philosophy  than  that  of 
our  epoch,  incapable  of  accounting  not  only  for  religion,  for 
science,  and  for  Itself,  but  for  art  itself,  which  has  again 
become  a  profound  mystery,  or  rather  a  theme  for  hor- 
rible blunders  by  positlvists,  neocriticists,  psychologists,  and 
pragmatists,  who  have  hitherto  represented  contemporary 
philosophy,  and  have  relapsed  (perhaps  in  order  to  acquire 
new  strength  and  to  mature  new  problems!)  into  the  most 
childish  and  most  crude  conceptions  of  art. 


[498] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


IV 

CRITICISM  AND  THE  HISTORY  OF  ART 


ARTISTIC  and  literary  criticism  Is  often  looked  upon  by 
^    artists  as  a  morose  and  tyrannical  pedagogue  who 
gives  capricious  orders,  imposes  prohibitions,  and  grants  per- 
missions, thus  aiding  or  injuring  their  works  by  wilfully  de- 
ciding upon  their  fate.   And  so  the  artists  either  shew  them- 
selves submissive,  humble,  flattering,  adulatory,  toward  it, 
while  hating  It  in  their  hearts;  or,  when  they  do  not  obtain 
what  they  want,  or  their  loftiness  of  soul  forbids  that  they 
should  descend  to  those  arts  of  the  courtier,  they  revolt 
against  it,  proclaiming  Its  uselessness,  with  imprecations  and 
mockery,   comparing    (the   remembrance  Is  personal)    the 
critic  to  an  ass  that  enters  the  potter's  shop  and  breaks  in 
pieces  with  quadriipedante  ungula  sonitu  the  delicate  prod- 
ucts of  his  art  set  out  to  dry  in  the  sun.    This  time,  to  tell  the 
truth,  it  is  the  artists'  fault,  for  they  do  not  know  what  criti- 
cism is,  expecting  from  it  favours  which  It  Is  not  In  a  position 
to  grant,  and  injuries  which  it  is  not  in  a  position  to  Inflict:     y 
since  It  Is  clear  that  since  no  critic  can  make  an  artist  of  ond^ 
who  Is  not  an  artist,  so  no  critic  can  ever  undo,  overthrow, 
or  even  slightly  injure  an  artist  who  is  really  an  artist,  owing 
to  the  metaphysical  impossibility  of  such  an  act :  these  things 
have  never  happened  In  the  course  of  history,  they  do  not 
happen  In  our  day,  and  we  can  be  sure  that  they  will  never 
happen  in  the  future.     But  sometimes  it  Is  the  critics  them- 
selves, or  the  self-styled  critics,  who  do  actually  present 
themselves  as  pedagogues,  as  oracles,  as  guides  of  art,  as 
legislators,  seers,   and  prophets;  they  command  artists  to 

1:499] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

do  this  or  that,  they  assign  themes  to  them  and  declare  that 
certain  subjects  are  poetical,  and  certain  others  not;  they  are 
discontented  with  the  art  at  present  produced,  and  would 
prefer  one  similar  to  that  prevailing  at  this  or  that  epoch  of 
the  past,  or  at  another  of  which  they  declare  they  catch  a 
glimpse  in  the  near  or  remote  future;  they  will  reprove 
Tasso  for  not  being  Ariosto,  Leopardi  for  not  being  Me- 
tastasio,  Manzoni  for  not  being  Alfieri,  D'Annunzio  because 
he  is  not  Berchet  or  Fra  Jacopone;  and  they  describe  the 
great  artist  of  the  future,  supplying  him  with  ethic,  philos- 
ophy, history,  language,  metric,  with  architectonic  and  col- 
ouristic  processes,  and  with  whatever  it  may  seem  to  them 
that  he  stands  in  need.  And  this  time  it  is  clear  that  the 
blame  lies  with  the  critic;  and  the  artists  are  right  in  behav- 
ing toward  such  brutality  in  the  way  that  we  behave  toward 
beasts,  which  we  try  to  tame,  to  illude  and  to  delude,  in 
order  that  they  may  serve  us;  or  w^e  drive  them  away  and 
send  them  to  the  slaughter-house  when  they  are  no  longer 
good  for  any  service.  But  for  the  honour  of  criticism  we 
must  add  that  those  capricious  critics  are  not  so  much  critics 
as  artists :  artists  who  have  failed  and  who  aspire  to  a  certain 
form  of  art,  which  they  are  unable  to  attain,  either  because 
their  aspiration  was  contradictory,  or  because  their  power 
was  not  sufficient  and  failed  them;  and  thus,  preserving  in 
their  soul  the  bitterness  of  the  unrealised  ideal,  they  can 
speak  of  nothing  else,  lamenting  everywhere  its  absence,  and 
everywhere  invoking  its  presence.  And  sometimes,  too, 
they  are  artists  who  are  anything  but  failures, — indeed,  most 
felicitous  artists, — but,  owing  to  the  very  energy  of  their 
artistic  individuality,  incapable  of  emerging  from  themselves 
in  order  to  understand  forms  of  art  different  from  their 
own,  and  disposed  to  reject  them  with  violence;  they  are 
aided  in  this  negation  by  the  odium  jigiiUnum,  the  jealousy 

[500] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

of  the  artist  for  the  artist,  which  is  without  doubt  a  defect, 
but  one  with  which  too  many  excellent  artists  appear  to  be 
stained  for  us  to  refuse  to  it  some  indulgence  similar  to  that 
accorded  to  the  defects  of  women,  so  difficult,  as  we  know, 
to  separate  from  their  good  qualities.    Other  artists  should 
calmly  reply  to  these  artist-critics:  ''Continue  doing  in  your 
art  what  you  do  so  well,  and  let  us  do  what  we  can  do" ;  and 
to  the  artists  who  have  failed  and  improvised  themselves 
critics:  "Do  not  claim  that  we  should  do  what  you  have 
failed  in  doing,  or  what  is  work  of  the  future,  of  which 
neither  you  nor  we  know  anything."     As  a  fact,  this  is  not 
the  usual  reply,  because  passion  forms  half  of  it;  but  this  is 
indeed  the  logical  reply,  which  logically  terminates  the  ques- 
tion, though  we  must  foresee  that  the  altercation  will  not 
terminate,  but  will  indeed  last  as  long  as  there  are  intolerant 
artists  and  failures— that  is  to  say,  for  ever. 

And  there  is  another  conception  of  criticism,  which  is  ex- 
pressed in  the  magistrate  and  in  the  judge,  as  the  foregoing 
is  expressed  in  the  pedagogue  or  in  the  tyrant;  it  attributes 
to  criticism  the  duty,  not  of  promoting  and  guiding  the  life 
of  art,~whlch  is  promoted  and  guided,  if  you  like  to  call  it 
so,  only  by  history;  that  is,  by  the  complex  movement  of  the 
spirit  in  its  historical  course,— but  simply  to  separate,  in  the 
art  which  has  already  been  produced,  the  beautiful  from  the 
ugly,  and  to  approve  the  beautiful  and  reprove  the  ugly 
with  the  solemnity  of  a  properly  austere  and  conscientious 
sentence.     But  I  fear  that  the  blame  of  uselessness  will  not 
be  removed  from  criticism,  even  with  this  other  definition, 
although  perhaps  the  motive  of  this  blame  may  to  some 
extent  be  changed.    Is  there  really  need  of  criticism  in  order 
to  distinguish  the  beautiful  from  the  ugly?    The  production 
itself  of  art  is  never  anything  but  this  distinguishing,  because 
the  artist  arrives  at  purity  of  expression  precisely  by  elimi- 

1:5013 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

nating  the  ugly  which  menaces  to  invade  it;  and  this  ugliness 
is  his  tumultuous  human  passions  striving  against  the  pure 
passion  of  art:  his  weaknesses,  his  prejudices,  his  conve- 
nience, his  laissez  faire,  his  haste,  his  having  one  eye  on  art 
and  another  on  the  spectator,  on  the  editor,  on  the  impre- 
sario—all of  them  things  that  impede  the  artist  in  the  phy- 
siological bearing  and  normal  birth  of  his  image-expression, 
the  poet  of  the  verse  that  rings  and  creates,  the  painter  of 
sure  drawing  and  harmonious  colour,  the  composer  of  mel- 
ody, and  introduces  into  their  work,  if  care  be  not  taken  to 
defend  themselves  against  it,  sonorous  and  empty  verses, 
incorrections,  lack  of  harmony,  discordances.    And  since  the 
artist,  at  the  moment  of  producing,  is  a  very  severe  judge  of 
himself  from  whom  nothing  escapes,— not  even  that  which 
escapes  others, — others  also  discern,  immediately  and  very 
clearly,  in  the  spontaneity  of  contemplation,  where  the  artist 
has  been  an  artist  and  where  he  has  been  a  man,  a  poor  man; 
in  what  works,  or  in  what  parts  of  works,  lyrical  enthusiasm 
and  creative  fancy  reign  supreme,  and  in  what  they  have 
become  chilled  and  have  yielded  their  place  to  other  things, 
which  pretend  to  be  art,  and  therefore   (considered  from 
the  aspect  of  this  pretence)  are  called  "ugly.'*    What  is  the 
use  of  the  sentence  of  criticism,  when  the  sentence  has  al- 
ready been  given  by  genius  and  by  taste?    Genius  and  taste 
are  legion,  they  are  people,  they  are  general  and  secular  con- 
sensus of  opinion.    So  true  is  this,  that  the  sentences  of  criti- 
cism are  always  given  too  late;  they  consecrate  forms  that 
have  already  been  solemnly  consecrated  with  universal  ap- 
plause  (pure  applause  must  not,  however,  be  confounded 
with  the  clapping  of  hands  and  with  social  notoriety,  the 
constancy  of  glory  with  the  caducity  of  fortune),  they  con- 
demn ugliness  already  condemned,  grown  wearisome  and 
forgotten,  or  still  praised  in  words,  but  with  a  bad  conscience, 

[502] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

through  prejudice  and  obstinate  pride.    Criticism,  conceived 
as  a  magistrate,  kills  the  dead  or  blows  air  upon  the  face  of 
the  living,  who  is  quite  lively,  in  the  belief  that  its  breath  is 
that  of  the  God  who  brings  life;  that  is,  it  performs  a  useless 
task,  because  this  has  previously  been  performed.     I  ask 
myself  what  critics  have  established  the  greatness  of  Dante, 
of  Shakespeare,  or  of  Michelangelo:  if,  among  the  legions 
who    have    acclaimed    and    do    acclaim    these    great    men, 
there  are  or  have  been  men  of  letters  and  professional  crit- 
ics, their  acclamation  does  not  differ  in  this  case  from  that 
of  youth  and  of  the  people,  who  are  all  equally  ready  to 
open  their  hearts  to  the  beautiful,  which  speaks  to  all,  save 
sometimes,  when  it  is  silent,  on  discovering  the  surly  coun- 
tenance of  a  critic-judge. 

And  so  there  arises  a  third  conception  of  criticism:  the 
criticism  of  interpretation  or  comment,  which  makes  itself 
small  before  works  of  art  and  limits  itself  to  the  duty  of 
dusting,  placing  in  a  good  light,  furnishing  information  as 
to  the  period  at  which  a  picture  was  painted  and  what  it 
represents,  explaining  linguistic  forms,  historical  allusions, 
the  presumptions  of  fact  and  of  idea  in  a  poem;  and  In  both 
cases,  its  duty  performed,  permits  the  art  to  act  sponta- 
neously  within  the  soul  of  the  onlooker  and  of  the  reader, 
who  will  then  judge  of  it  according  as  his  Intimate  taste  tells 
him  to  judge.     In  this  case  the  critic  appears  as  a  culti- 
vated cicerone  or  as  a  patient  and  discreet  schoolmaster: 
"Criticism  Is  the  art  of  teaching  to  read,"  Is  the  definition  of 
a  famous  critic;  and  the  definition  has  not  been  without  Its 
echo.    Now  no  one  contests  the  utility  of  guides  to  museums 
or  exhibitions,  or  of  teachers  of  reading,  still  less  of  erudite 
guides  and  masters  who  know  so  many  things  hidden  from 
the  majority  and  are  able  to  throw  so  much  light  on  subjects. 
Not  only  has  the  art  that  is  most  remote  from  us  need  of 

Do3:i 


'I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

this  assistance,  but  also  that  of  the  nearest  past,  called  con- 
temporary, which,  although  it  treats  of  subjects  and  presents 
forms  that  seem  to  be  obvious,  is  yet  not  always  sufficiently 
obvious;  and  sometimes  a  great  effort  is  requisite  in  order  to 
prepare  people  to  feel  the  beauty  of  a  little  poem  or  of  some 
work  of  art,  though  born  but  yesterday.  Prejudices,  habits 
and  forgetfulness  form  hedges  barring  the  approach  to  that 
work:  the  expert  hand  of  the  interpreter  and  of  the  com- 
mentator is  required  to  remove  them.  Criticism  in  this  sense 
is  certainly  most  useful,  but  we  do  not  see  why  it  should  be 
called  criticism  when  that  sort  of  work  already  possesses  its 
own  name  of  interpretation,  comment,  or  exegesis.  To  call 
this  criticism  is  at  best  useless,  for  it  is  equivocal. 

It  is  equivocal  because  criticism  demands  to  be,  wishes  to 
be  and  is  something  different:  it  does  not  wish  to  invade  art, 
nor  to  rediscover  the  beauty  of  the  beautiful,  or  the  ugliness 
of  the  ugly,  nor  to  make  itself  small  before  art,  but  rather 
to  make  itself  great  before  art  which  is  great  and,  in  a  cer- 
tain sense,  above  it.  What,  then,  is  legitimate  and  true 
criticism? 
(/  First  of  all,  it  is  at  once  all  three  of  the  things  that  I  have 
hitherto  explained;  that  is  to  say,  all  these  three  things  are 
Its  necessary  conditions,  without  which  it  would  not  arise. 
Without  the  moment  of  art  (and,  as  we  have  seen,  that  criti- 
cism which  affirms  Itself  to  be  productive  or  an  aid  to 
production,  or  as  repressing  certain  forms  of  production  to 
the  advantage  of  certain  other  forms,  is,  in  a  certain  sense, 
art  against  art),  the  experience  of  art  would *be  wanting  to 
the  critic,  art  created  within  his  spirit,  severed  from  non- 
art,  and  enjoyed  in  preference  to  that.  And  finally,  this 
experience  would  be  wanting  without  exegesis,  without  the 
removal  of  the  obstacles  to  reproductive  fancy,  which  supply 
the  spirit  with  those  presumptions  of  historical  knowledge 

C504] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

of  which  it  has  need,  and  which  are  the  wood  to  burn  in 
the  fire  of  fancy. 

But  here,  before  going  further,  it  will  be  well  to  resolve  a 
grave  doubt  which  has  been  agitated  and  is  still  agitated, 
both  In  philosophical  literature  and  In  ordinary  thought,  and 
which  certainly,  where  justified,  would  not  only  compromise 
the  possiblhty  of  criticism,  of  which  I  am  discoursing,  but 
also  of  reproductive  fancy  itself,  or  taste.     Is  it  truly  pos- 
sible to  collect,  as  does  exegesis,  the  materials  required  for 
reproducing  the  work  of  art  of  others   (or  our  own  past 
work  of  art,  when  we  search  our  memory  and  consult  our 
papers  in  order  to  remember  what  we  were  when  we  pro- 
duced it),  and  to  reproduce  that  work  of  art  in  our  fancy  in 
its  genuine  features?     Can  the  collection  of  the  material 
required  be  ever  complete?    And  however  complete  it  be, 
will  the  fancy  ever  permit  itself  to  be  chained  by  it  in  its 
labour  of  reproduction?    Will  it  not  act  as  a  new  fancy,  in- 
troducing new  material?     Will  It  not  be  obliged  to  do' so, 
owing  to  its  Impotence  truly  to  reproduce  the  other  and  the 
past?     Is  the  reproduction  of  the  Individual,  of  the  indi- 
vidiium  ineffabile,  conceivable,  when  every  sane  philosophy 
teaches  that  the  universal  alone  is  eternally  reproducible? 
Will  not  the  reproduction  of  the  works  of  art  of  others  or 
of  the  past  be  cons-equently  a  simple  impossibility;  and  will 
not  what  is  usually  alleged  as  an  undisputed  fact  In  ordinary 
conversation,  and  Is  the  expressed  or  implied  presupposition 
in  every  dispute  upon  art,  be  perhaps  (as  was  said  of  history 
m  general)  iine  fable  convenuef 

7>uly,  when  we  consider  the  problem  rather  from  with- 
out, it  will  seem  most  improbable  that  the  firm  belief  which 
all  possess  In  the  comprehension  and  intelligence  of  art  is 
without  foundation,-all  the  more,  if  we  observe  that  these 
very  people  who  deny  the  possibility  of  reproductions  in 

1:5053 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

abstract  theory— or,  as  they  call  it,  the  absoluteness  of  taste 
—  are  yet  most  tenacious  in  maintaining  their  own  judgments 
of  taste,  and  very  clearly  realise  the  difference  there  is  be- 
tween the  affirmation  that  wine  pleases  or  displeases  me 
because  it  agrees  or  disagrees  with  my  physiological  organ- 
ism, and  the  affirmation  that  a  poem  is  beautiful,  and  another 
a  pastiche:  the  second  order  of  judgments  (as  Kant  shows 
in  a  classical  analysis)  carries  with  it  the  uncoercible  preten- 
sion to  universal  validity;  souls  become  passionate  about 
it;  and  in  days  of  chivalry  there  were  even  those  who  main- 
tained the  beauty  of  the  "Gerusalemme,"  sword  in  hand, 
whereas  no  one  that  we  know  has  ever  been  killed  main- 
taining, sword  in  hand,  that  wine  was  pleasant  or  unpleas- 
ant. To  object  that  works  artistically  base  have  yet  pleased 
many  or  someone,  and  if  not  others,  their  author,  is  not 
valid,  because  their  having  pleased  is  not  set  in  doubt  (since 
nothing  can  be  horn  in  the  soul  without  the  consent  of  the 
soul,  and  consequently  without  a  correlative  pleasure)  ;  but 
it  is  doubted  whether  that  pleasure  were  aesthetic,  and 
were  founded  upon  a  judgment  of  taste  and  beauty.  And 
passing  from  extrinsic  scepticism  to  intrinsic  consideration, 
it  should  be  said  that  the  objection  to  the  conceivability  of 
the  aesthetic  reproduction  Is  founded  upon  a  reality  conceived 
in  its  turn  as  a  shock  of  atoms,  or  as  abstractly  monadistic, 
composed  of  monads  without  communication  among  them- 
selves and  harmonised  only  from  without.  But  that  is  not 
reality:  reality  is  spiritual  unity,  and  in  spiritual  unity  noth- 
ing is  lost,  everything  is  an  eternal  possession.  Not  only  the 
reproduction  of  art,  but,  in  general,  the  memory  of  any  fact 
(which  is  indeed  always  reproduction  of  intuitions),  would 
be  inconceivable  without  the  unity  of  the  real ;  and  if  we  had 
not  been  ourselves  Caesar  and  Pompey, — that  is,  that  univer- 
sal which  was  once  determined  as  Caesar  and  Pompey  and  is 

1:506] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

now  determined  as  ourselves,  they  living  in  us,— we  should 
be  unable  to  form  any  idea  of  Caesar  and  Pompey.  And 
further,  the  doctrine  that  indlviduahty  is  irreproducible  and 
the  universal  only  reproducible  is  certainly  a  doctrine  of 
"sound"  philosophy,  but  of  sound  scholastic  philosophy, 
which  separated  universal  and  individual,  making  the  latter 
an  accident  of  the  former  (dust  carried  along  by  time),  and 
did  not  know  that  the  true  universal  is  the  universal  indi- 
viduated, and  that  the  only  true  effable  is  the  so-called 
Ineffable,  the  concrete  and  Individual.  And  finally,  what 
does  it  matter  If  we  have  not  always  ready  the  material  for 
reproducing  with  full  exactitude  all  works  of  art  or  any 
work  of  art  of  the  past?  Fully  exact  reproduction  is,  like 
every  human  work,  an  Ideal  which  is  realised  in  infinity,  and 
therefore  Is  always  realised  in  such  a  manner  that  It  Is  ad- 
mitted at  every  Instant  of  time  by  the  conformation  of  real- 
ity. Is  there  a  suggestion  in  a  poem  of  which  the  full 
signification  escapes  us  ?  No  one  will  wish  to  affirm  that  that 
suggestion,  of  which  we  now  have  a  crepuscular  vision  that 
fails  to  satisfy,  will  not  be  better  determined  In  the  future 
by  means  of  research  and  meditation  and  by  the  formation 
of  favourable  conditions  and  sympathetic  currents. 

Therefore,  Inasmuch  as  taste  Is  most  sure  of  the  legiti- 
macy of  its  discussions,  by  just  so  much  Is  historical  research 
and  Interpretation  Indefatigable  In  restoring  and  preserving 
and  widening  the  knowledge  of  the  past;  not  mentioning 
that  relativists  and  sceptics,  both  In  taste  and  In  history,  utter 
their  desperate  cries  from  time  to  time,  which  do  not  reduce 
anyone,  not  even  themselves,  as  we  have  seen,  to  the  effec- 
tual desperation  of  not  judging. 

Closing  here  this  long  but  Indispensable  parenthesis  and 
taking  up  the  thread  of  the  discourse,  art,  historical  exegesis, 
and  taste,  if  they  be  conditions  of  criticism,  are  not  yet  crltl- 

1:5073 


\ 


i 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

cism.  Indeed,  nothing  Is  obtained  by  means  of  that  triple 
presupposition,  save  the  reproduction  and  enjoyment  of 
the  Image— expression;  that  Is  to  say,  we  return  and  place 
ourselves  neither  more  nor  less  than  in  the  place  of  the 
artist-producer  In  the  act  of  producing  his  Image.  Nor  can 
we  escape  from  those  conditions,  as  some  boast  of  doing,  by 
proposing  to  ourselves  to  reproduce  In  a  new  form  the  work 
of  the  poet  and  the  artist  by  providing  Its  equivalent;  hence 
they  define  the  critic:  artifex  additiis  artifici.  Because  that 
reproduction  In  a  new  garment  would  be  a  translation,  or  a 
variation,  another  work  of  art,  to  some  extent  inspired  by 
the  first;  and  If  It  were  the  same,  it  would  be  a  reproduction 
pure  and  simple,  a  material  reproduction,  with  the  same 
words,  the  same  colours,  and  the  same  tones — that  is,  useless. 
The  critic  Is  not  artifex  additus  artifici,  but  philosophus  ad- 
ditus  artifici:  his  work  is  not  achieved,  save  when  the  image 
received  is  both  preserved  and  surpassed;  it  belongs  to 
thought,  which  we  have  seen  surpass  and  Illumine  fancy  with 
new  light,  make  the  intuition  perception,  qualify  reality,  and 
therefore  distinguish  reality  from  unreality.  In  this  percep- 
tion, this  distinction,  which  is  always  and  altogether  criti-' 
cism  or  judgment,  the  criticism  of  art,  of  which  we  are  now 
especially  treating,  originates  with  the  question:  whether 
and  In  what  measure  the  fact,  which  we  have  before  us  as  a 
problem,  is  intuition— that  Is  to  say.  Is  real  as  such;  and 
whether  and  In  what  measure,  it  is  not  such— that  Is  to  say, 
is  unreal :  reality  and  unreality,  which  in  art  are  called  beauty 
and  ugliness,  as  in  logic  they  are  called  truth  and  error,  in 
economy  gain  and  loss.  In  ethic  good  and  evil.  Thus  the  '^^ 
whole  criticism  of  art  can  be  reduced  to  this  briefest  proposi- 
tion, which  further  serves  to  differentiate  Its  work  from  that 
of  art  and  taste  (which,  considered  In  themselves,  are  logi- 
cally mute),  and  from  exegetlcal  erudition  (which  lacks  logi- 

1:5083 


^ 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

cal  synthesis,  and  is  therefore  also  logically  mute)  :  "There 
Is  a  work  of  art  a/^  with  the  corresponding  negative :  "There 
is  not  a  work  of  art  a/* 

It  seems  to  be  a  trifle,  for  the  definition  of  art  as  intuition 
seemed  to  be  neither  more  nor  less  than  a  trifle,  but  it  has 
on  the  contrary  been  since  seen  how  many  things  it  included 
In  itself,  how  many  affirmations  and  how  many  negations: 
so  many  that,  although  I  have  proceeded  and  proceed  In  a 
condensed  manner,  I  have  not  been  able  and  will  not  be 
able  to  afford  more  than  brief  mention  of  them.     That 
proposition  or  judgment  of  the  criticism  of  art,  "The  work  of 
art  a  is,"  implies,  above  all,  like  every  judgment,  a  subject 
(the  intuition  of  the  work  of  art  ^)   to  conquer  which  is 
needed  the  labour  of  exegesis  and  of  fantastic  reproduction, 
together  with  the  discernment  of  taste :  we  have  already  seen 
how  difficult  and  complicated  this  is,  and  how  many  go  astray 
in  it,  through  lack  of  fancy,  or  owing  to  slightness  and  super- 
ficiality of  culture.    And  it  further  Implies,  like  every  judg- 
ment, a  predicate,  a  category,  and  in  this  case  the  category 
of  art,  which  must  be  conceived  In  the  judgment,  and  which 
therefore  becomes  the  concept  of  art.     And  we  have  also 
seen,  as  regards  the  concept  of  art,  to  what  difficulties  and 
complications  it  gives  rise,  and  how  it  is  a  possession  always 
unstable,  continually  attacked  and  ambushed,  and  continu- 
ally to  be  defended  against  assaults  and  ambushes.     Criti- 
cism of  art,  therefore,  develops  and  grows,  declines  and 
reappears,  with  the  development,  the  decadence,  and  the 
reappearance  of  the  philosophy  of  art;  and  each  can  com- 
pare what  it  was  In  the  Middle  Ages  (when  it  may  almost 
be  said  that  it  was  not)  with  what  it  became  In  the  first  half 
of  the  nineteenth  century  with  Herder,  with  Hegel,  and  with 
the  Romantics,  In  Italy  with  De  Sanctis;  and  In  a  narrower 
field,  what  It  was  with  De  Sanctis,  and  what  it  became  In  the 

[509: 


ii 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

following  period  of  naturalism,  in  which  the  concept  of  art 
became  clouded  and  finally  confused  with  physic  and  with 
physiology,  and  even  with  pathology.  And  if  disagreements 
as  to  judgments  depend  for  one  half,  or  less  than  half,  upon 
lack  of  clearness  as  to  what  the  artist  has  done,  lack  of  sym- 
pathy and  taste  for  another  half,  or  more  than  half,  this 
arises  from  the  small  clearness  of  ideas  upon  art;  whence 
it  often  happens  that  two  individuals  are  substantially  at  one 
as  to  the  value  of  a  work  of  art,  save  that  the  one  approves 
what  the  other  blames,  because  each  refers  to  a  different 
definition  of  art. 

And  owing  to  this  dependence  of  criticism  upon  the  con- 
cept of  art,  as  many  forms  of  false  criticism  are  to  be 
distinguished  as  there  are  false  philosophies  of  art;  and, 
limiting  ourselves  to  the  principal  forms  of  which  we  have 
already  discoursed,  there  is  a  kind  of  criticism  which,  instead 
of  reproducing  and  characterising  art,  breaks  in  pieces  and 
classifies  it;  there  is  another,  moralistic,  which  treats  works 
of  art  like  actions  in  respect  of  ends  which  the  artist  pro- 
poses or  should  have  proposed  to  himself;  there  Is  hedonistic 
criticism,  which  presents  art  as  having  attained  or  failed  to 
attain  to  pleasure  and  amusement;  there  is  also  the  Intel- 
lectuallstlc  form,  which  measures  progress  according  to  the 
progress  of  philosophy,  knows  the  philosophy  but  not  the 
passion  of  Dante,  judges  Ariosto  feeble  because  he  has  a 
feeble  philosophy,  Tasso  more  serious  because  his  philos- 
ophy is  more  serious,  Leopardi  contradictory  in  his  pessi- 
mism. There  Is  that  criticism  usually  called  psychological, 
which  separates  content  from  form,  and  instead  of  attending 
to  works  of  art,  attends  to  the  psychology  of  the  artists  as 
men;  and  there  is  the  other  form,  which  separates  form 
from  content  and  is  pleased  with  abstract  forms  because, 
according  to  cases  and  to  individual  sympathies,  they  recall 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

antiquity  or  the  Middle  Ages;  and  there  is  yet  another, 
which  finds  beauty  where  it  finds  rhetorical  ornaments;  and 
finally  there  is  that  which,  having  fixed  the  laws  of  the  kinds 
and  of  the  arts,  receives  or  rejects  works  of  art  according 
as  they  approach  or  retreat  from  the  models  which  they 
have  formed.     I  have  not  enumerated  them  all,  nor  had 
I  the  intention  of  so  doing,  nor  do  I  wish  to  expound  the 
criticism  of  criticism,  which  could  be  nothing  but  a  repetition 
of  the  already  traced  criticism  and  dialectic  of  ^Esthetic;  and 
already  here  and  there  will  have  been  observed  the  begin- 
nings of  Inevitable  repetition.     It  would  be  more  profitable 
to  summarise  (If  even  a  rapid  summary  did  not  demand  too 
much  space)  the  history  of  criticism,  to  place  the  historical 
names  in  the  ideal  positions  that  I  have  Indicated,  and  to 
shew  how  criticism  of  models  raged  above  all  during  the 
Italian  and  French  classical  periods,  conceptuallstic  criticism 
in  German  philosophy  of  the  nineteenth  century,  that  of 
moralistic  description  at  the  period  of  religious  reform  or 
of  the  Italian  national  revival,  psychology  In  France  with 
Salnte-Beuve   and  many  others;  how  the   hedonistic   form 
had  its  widest  diffusion  among  people  In  society,  among 
boudoir  and  journalistic  critics;  that  of  classifications.  In 
schools,  where  the  duty  of  criticism  is  believed  to  have  been 
successfully  fulfilled  when  the  so-called  origin  of  metres  and 
literary  and  artistic  kinds  and  their  representatives  has  been 
Investigated. 

But  the  forms  which  I  have  briefly  described  are  forms  of 
criticism,  however  erroneous;  though  this  cannot,  in  truth, 
be  said  of  other  forms  which  raise  their  banners  and  combat 
among  themselves,  under  the  names  of  "aesthetic  criticism" 
and  ''historical  criticism."  These  I  beg  leave  to  baptise,  on 
the  contrary,  as  they  deserve,  pseudo-asthetic  criticism  (or 
aesthetlstic),   and  pseudo-historical  criticism    (or  historlsti- 


' 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

cal).     These  two  forms,  though  very  much  opposed,  have    / 
a  common  hatred  of  philosophy  in  general,  and  of  the  con- 
cept of  art  in  particular:  against  any  intervention  of  thought 
in  the  criticism  of  art,  which  in  the  opinion  of  the  former 
is  the  affair  of  artistic  souls;  in  the  opinion  of  the  latter,  of 
the  erudite.     In  other  words,  they  debase  criticism  below 
criticism,  the  former  limiting  it  to  pure  taste  and  enjoyment 
of  art,  the  latter  to  pure  exegetical  research  or  preparation 
of  materials  for  reproduction  by  the  fancy.  What  ^Esthetic, 
which  implies  thought  and  concept  of  art,  can  have  to  do 
with  pure  taste  without  concept  is  difficult  to  say;  and  what 
history  can  have  to  do  with  disconnected  erudition  relative 
to  art,  which  is  not  organisable  as  history  because  without  a 
concept  of  art  and  ignorant  of  what  art  is  (whereas  history 
demands  always  that  we  should  know  that  of  which  we  nar- 
rate the  history).  Is  yet  more  difficult  to  establish;  at  the 
most  we  could  note  the  reasons  for  the  strange  "fortune" 
which  those  two  words  have  experienced.     But  there  would 
be  no  harm  in  those  names  or  in  the  refusal  to  exercise  criti- 
cism, provided  that  the  upholders  of  both  should  remain 
within  the  boundaries  assigned  by  themselves,  these  enjoying 
works  of  art,  those  collecting  material  for  exegesis;  and  they 
might  leave  criticism  to  him  who  should  wish  to  criticise,  or 
satisfy  themselves  with  speaking  ill  of  It  without  touching 
problems  which  properly  belong  to  criticism.     In  order  to 
attain  to  such  an  attitude  of  reserve  It  would  be  necessary 
neither  more  nor  less  than  that  the  aesthetes  should  never 
open  their  mouths  in  ecstasy  about  art,  that  they  should  si- 
lently degustate  their  joys,  and,  at  the  most,  that  when  they 
met  their  like  they  should  understand  one  another,  as  animals 
are  said  to  do  (who  knows,  though,  If  It  be  true!)  without 
speaking:  their  countenance  unconsciously  bearing  an  expres- 
sion of  ravishment,  their  arms  outstretched  in  an  attitude  of 

[1512] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

wonder,  or  their  hands  joined  In  a  prayer  of  thanksgiving 
for  the  joy  experienced,  should  suffice  for  everything.    His- 
torians,   for  their  part,   might   certainly   speak:   speak  of 
codices,  of  corrections,  of  chronical  and  of  topical  dates,  of 
political  facts,  of  biographical  occurrences,  of  sources  of 
works,  of  language,  of  syntaxes,  of  metres,  but  never  of  art, 
which  they  serve,  but  to  whose  countenance,  as  simple  eru- 
dites, they  cannot  raise  their  eyes,  as  the  maid-servant  does 
not  raise  them  to  look  upon  her  mistress,  whose  clothes  she 
nevertheless  brushes  and  whose  food  she  prepares :  sic  vos, 
non  vohis.     But  go  and  ask  of  men  such  abstentions,  sacri- 
fices, and  heroisms,  however  extravagant  In  their  Ideas  and 
fanatic  in  their  extravagances!     In  particular,  go  and  ask 
those  who,  for  one  or  another  reason,  are  occupied  with  art 
all  their  lives,  not  to  talk  of  or  to  judge  art!    But  the  mute 
ssthetisticians  talk  of,  judge,  and  argue  about  art,  and  the 
Inconclusive  historlcians  do  the  same;  and  since  In  thus  talk- 
ing they  are  without  the  guide  of  philosophy  and  of  the 
concept  of  art,  which  they  despise  and  abhor,  and  yet  have 
need  of  a  concept,— when  good  sense  does  not  fortunately 
happen  to  suggest  the  right  one  to  them,  without  their  being 
aware  of  it,— they  wander  among  all  the  various  preconcep- 
tions, moralistic  and  hedonistic,  Intellectuallstic  and  content- 
Istlc,  formalistic  and  rhetorical,  physiological  and  academi- 
cal, which  I  have  recorded,  now  relying  upon  this  one,  now 
upon  that,  now  confounding  them  all  and  contaminating  one 
with  the  other.    And  the  most  curious  spectacle  (though  to 
be  foreseen  by  the  philosopher)   Is  that  the  sesthetlsticlans 
and  historiclans,  those  Irreconcilable  adversaries,  although 
they  start  from  opposite  points,  yet  agree  so  well  that  they 
end  by  uttering  the  same  fatuities;  and  nothing  is  more 
amusing  than  to  meet  again  the  most  musty  Intellectuallstic 
and  moralistic  Ideas  In  the  pages  of  deeply  moved  lovers  of 

1:5133 


I 


ItJgf-iiS'tU'jitJ'j 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

art  (so  deeply  moved  as  to  hate  thought),  and  in  the  most 
positive  historians    (so  positive  as  to   fear  compromising 
their  positivity  by  attempting  to  understand  the  object  of 
theif  researches,  which  chances  this  time  to  be  called  art). 
/    True  criticism  of  art  is  certainly  asthetic  criticism,  but  not 
because  it  disdains  philosophy,  like  pseudo-assthetic,  but  be- 
cause it  acts  as  philosophy  and  as  conception  of  art;  it  is 
historical  criticism,  not  because,  like  pseudo-history,  it  deals 
with  the  extrinsic  of  art,  but  because,  after  having  availed 
itself  of  historical  data  for  fantastic  reproduction  (and  till 
then  it  is  not  yet  history),  when  fantastic  reproduction  has 
been  obtained,  it  becomes  history,  by  determining  what  is 
that  fact  which  has  been  reproduced  in  the  fancy,  and  so 
characterising  the  fact  by  means  of  the  concept,  and  estab- 
lishing  what  exactly  is  the  fact  that  has  occurred.    Thus,  the 
two  things  at  variance  in  spheres  inferior  to  criticism  co- 
incide  in   criticism;   and   ''historical  criticism   of  art''   and 
"esthetic  criticism''  are  the  same:  it  is  indifferent  which  word 
we  use,  for  each  may  have  its  special  use  solely  for  reasons 
of  convenience,  as  when,  for  instance,  it  is  desired  to  call 
special  attention,  with  the  first,  to  the  necessity  of  the  under- 
standing of  art;  with  the  second,  to  the  historical  objectivity 
of  its  consideration.    Thus  the  problem  discussed  by  certain 
methodologists  is  solved,  namely,  whether  history  enter  into 
the  criticism  of  art  as  means  or  as  end:  since  it  is  henceforth 
clear  that  history  adopted  as  a  means  is  not  history,  pre- 
cisely because  it  is  a  means,  but  is  exegetic  material;  and  that 
which  enters  it  as  end  is  certainly  history,  though  it  does  not 
enter  it  as  a  particular  element,  but  as  its  constituent  whole: 
which  precisely  describes  the  word  ''end." 

But  if  criticism  of  art  be  historical  criticism,  it  follows 
that  it  will  not  be  possible  to  limit  the  duty  of  discerning  the 
beautiful  and  the  ugly  to  simple  approval  and  refusal  in 

n5i43 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

the  immediate  consciousness  of  the  artist  when  he  produces, 
or  of  the  man   of  taste   when   he   contemplates;   it  must 
widen  and  elevate  itself  to  what  is  called  explanation.    And 
since  in  the  world  of  history   (which  is,  indeed,  the  only 
world)  negative  or  privative  facts  do  not  exist,  what  seems 
to  taste  to  be  ugly  and  repugnant,  because  not  artistic,  will 
be  neither  ugly  nor  repugnant  to  historical  consideration, 
because  it  knows  that  what  is  not  artistic  yet  is  something 
else,  and  has  its  right  to  existence  as  truly  as  it  has  existed. 
The  virtuous  Catholic  allegory  composed  by  Tasso  for  his 
"Gerusalemme"  is  not  artistic,  nor  the  patriotic  declamation 
of  NIccolini  and  Guerrazzi,  nor  the  subtleties  and  conceits 
which   Petrarch   introduced   into   his   poems;   but   Tasso's 
allegory  is  one  of  the  manifestations  of  the  work  of  the 
Catholic  counter-reform  in  the  Latin  countries;  the  declama- 
tions of  Niccolini  and  of  Guerrazzi  were  violent  attempts 
to  rouse  the  souls  of  Italians  against  the  priest  and  the 
stranger,  representing  adhesion  to  the  manner  of  that  arous- 
ing; the  subtleties  and  conceits  of  Petrarch,  the  cult  of  tradi- 
tional troubadour  elegance,  revived  and  enriched  in  the  new 
Italian  civilisation;  that  is  to  say,  they  are  all  practical  facts, 
very  significant  historically  and  worthy  of  respect.    We  can 
well  continue  to  talk  of  the  beautiful  and  of  the  ugly,  in  the 
field  of  historical  criticism,  through  vivacity  of  language,  or 
in  order  to  chime  with  current  parlance ;  provided  that  we 
shew  at  the  same  time,  or  hint,  or  let  be  understood,  or  at 
least  do  not  exclude,  the  positive  content,  both  of  that  beauti- 
ful and  of  that  ugly,  which  will  never  be  so  radically  con- 
demned in  its  ugliness  as  when  it  is  fully  justified  and  under- 
stood, because  in  this  case  it  will  be  removed  in  the  most 
radical  manner  from  the  sphere  proper  to  art. 

For  this  reason,  criticism  of  art,  when  truly  aesthetic  or 
historical,  becomes  at  the  same  time  amplified  into  a  criti- 

1:5153 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

cism  of  life,  since  it  is  not  possible  to  judge — that  is,  to  char- 
acterise— works  of  art  without  at  the  same  time  judging  and 
characterising  the  works  of  the  whole  life:  as  we  observe 
with  the  truly  great  critics,  and  above  all  with  De  Sanctis, 
In  his  "History  of  Italian  Literature"  and  in  his  "Critical 
Essays,"  who  Is  as  profound  a  critic  of  art  as  of  philosophy, 
morality,  and  politics;  he  is  profound  in  the  one  because  pro- 
found in  the  other,  and  inversely:  the  strength  of  his  pure 
aesthetic  consideration   of  art   Is  the   strength  of  his  pure 
moral  consideration  of  morality.    Because  the  forms  of  the 
spirit,  of  which  criticism  avails  itself  as  categories  of  judg- 
ment, although  ideally  distinguishable  In  unity,  are  not  ma- 
terially separable  from  one  another  and  from  unity,  under 
penalty  of  seeing  them  vanish  before  us.    We  cannot,  there- 
fore, speak  of  a  distinction  of  art  from  other  criticism,  save 
in  an  empirical  manner,  to  indicate  that  the  attention  of  the 
speaker  or  writer  Is  directed  to  one  rather  than  to  another 
part  of  his  indivisible  argument.    And  the  distinction  is  also 
empirical  (I  have  hitherto  preserved  this  here,  in  order  to 
proceed  with  didactic  clearness)  between  criticism  and  his- 
tory of  art:  a  distinction  which  has  been  specially  deter- 
mined by  the  fact  that  a  polemical  element  prevails  In  the 
study  of  contemporary  art  and  literature,  which  causes  it  to 
be  more  readily  called  "criticism,"  while  in  that  of  the  art 
and  literature  of  a  more  remote  period  prevails  the  narra- 
tive tone,  and  therefore  it  is  more  readily  termed  "history." 
In  reality,  true  and  complete  criticism  is  the  serene  historical 
narration  of  what  has  happened;  and  history  is  the  only  true 
criticism  that  can  be  exercised  upon  the  doings  of  humanity, 
which  cannot  be  not-facts,  since  they  have  happened,  and  are 
not  to  be  dominated  by  the  spirit  otherwise  than  by  tinder- 
standing  them.     And  since  the  criticism  of  art  has  shewn 
Itself  Inseparable  from  other  criticism,  so  the  history  of  art 

1:516:] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

can  be  separated  from  the  complete  history  of  human  civili- 
sation only  for  reasons  of  a  literary  nature,  among  which  It 
certainly  follows  its  own  law,  which  is  art,  but  from  which  It 
receives  the  historical  movement,  which  belongs  to  the  spirit 
as  a  whole,  never  to  one  form  of  the  spirit  separated  from 
the  others. 

Benedetto  Croce. 


I 


D173 


MUTATIONS  IN  HEREDITY 

GEOGRAPHICAL  BOTANY 

MODERN  CYTOLOGICAL  PROBLEMS 

THE  IDEALS  OF  AN  EXPERIMENT 

GARDEN^ 


First  Lecture 
MUTATIOxNS  IN  HEREDITY 

SINCE  the  publication  of  the  two  volumes  of  my  *'Muta- 
tion  Theory"  ten  years  have  elapsed.  At  that  time  the 
prevailing  opinion  was  that  very  small  and  often  even  in- 
visible changes  could  gradually  be  increased  and  accumu- 
lated, and  that  this  process  could  lead  to  specific  differences, 
and  even  to  the  production  of  the  characters  of  genera  and 
larger  groups.  This  conception  was  the  principle  of  the 
theory  of  selection  as  proposed  by  Darwin,  as  well  as  the 
starting-point  for  the  hypothesis  of  orthogenesis,  of  the  di- 
rect influence  of  environment,  and  of  many  others.  It  was 
generally  accepted  in  the  teachings  of  plant  improvement  in 
agriculture,  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  origin  of  new  va- 
rieties by  leaps  and  bounds  was  a  fact  wxll  known  only  to 
horticulturists. 

In  opposition  to  this  conception,  I  tried  to  show  that  the 
origin  of  new  forms  complies,  in  nature  as  well  as  in  agri- 
culture, to  the  mode  which  was  observed  to  be  followed  in 
horticulture,  and  that  the  whole  evolution  of  the  plant  king- 
dom has  been  brought  about  by  a  long  series  of  successive 
small  leaps.    The  extraordinarily  slow  evolution  which  was 

1  Four  lectures  presented  at  the  inauguration  of  the  Rice  Institute,  by  Pro- 
fessor Hugo  de  Vries,  Director  of  the  Hortus  Botanicus  and  Professor  of 
Botany  in  the  University  of  Amsterdam. 


it^f 


iA, 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

a  necessary  consequence  of  the  then  prevailing  opinion  re- 
quired an  almost  unlimited  duration  of  time;  but  the  new 
principle  of  mutations  reduced  the  biological  time  to  the 
limits  which  had  been  determined  by  physicists  and  geologists 
for  the  duration  of  life  on  this  earth.  The  starting-point  for 
the  new  ideas  was  the  distinction  between  two  main  types  of 
variability:  fluctuation  and  mutation.  I  had  deduced  this 
principle  from  my  interpretation  of  Darwin's  well  known 
provisional  hypothesis  of  pangenesis,  and  convinced  myself 
of  Its  truth  by  means  of  a  series  of  experiments.  On  the 
basis  of  these  theoretical  considerations  I  proposed  the  muta- 
tion theory,  which  means  that  the  characters  of  all  organisms 
are  built  up  of  sharply  distinguished  units.  These  qualities 
may  be  combined  into  groups,  and  in  allied  species  the  same 
units  and  groups  may  be  met  with.  They  do  not  pass  gradu- 
ally into  one  another;  transitions  fail  between  them,  al- 
though they  may  often  be  observed  between  the  external 
forms  of  plants  and  animals. 

The  changes  in  the  number  and  the  position  of  these  units, 
as  well  as  those  in  their  relative  connections,  constitute  the 
domain  of  mutability.  They  are  the  causes  of  discontinuous 
variation,  or  of  the  sudden  appearance  of  externally  visible 
deviations.  The  steps  are,  as  a  rule,  only  small  ones ;  but  are 
inherited  as  such  from  the  very  beginning,  without  tran- 
sitions. Apart  from  these,  the  different  organs  and  qualities 
continually  vary  in  number  as  well  as  in  measure  and  weight. 
In  doing  so  they  are  observed  to  follow  the  laws  of  probabil- 
ity and  to  be  influenced  by  external  factors;  favorable  con- 
ditions may  increase  them  in  one  way,  while  unfavorable 
circumstances  may  determine  their  augmentation  in  the  op- 
posite direction.  Such  changes  are  described  as  fluctuations 
or  as  fluctuating  variability.  On  the  basis  of  the  Investiga- 
tions of  Quetelet,  their  laws  have  been  very  completely 
studied.    All  these  phenomena  are  governed  by  internal  as 

[519] 


II 


/ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

well  as  by  external  causes.  The  Internal  ones  are  given  by 
the  hereditary  units  and  determine  the  nature  of  the  changes 
which  may  take  place ;  while  the  external  factors  decide  when 
and  to  what  extent  the  deviations  from  the  average  will 
occur. 

As  well  as  fluctuations,  mutations  are  induced  by  external 
and  internal  causes,  as  I  have  distinctly  pointed  out.     The 
determination  of  these,  however.  Is  far  more  difficult  than 
In  the  case  of  fluctuations.     It  is  only  in  a  general  way  that 
my  experiments  show  that  mutability  may  be  Increased  by 
favorable  conditions  of  life.    In  connection  with  this  fact,  we 
may  assume  that.  In  nature,  the  origin  of  new  forms  Is  not 
due  to  a  hard  struggle,  but  is  promoted  by  a  luxuriant  en- 
vironment and  by  easy  conditions  of  development.    It  is  true 
that  a  struggle  for  life  must  be;  but  this  comes  In  after  the 
new  forms  have  already  been  produced,  and,  as  It  seems, 
often  only  after  a  considerable  lapse  of  time.    Such  a  strug- 
gle for  life  demands  no  greater  sacrifices  than  those  which 
are  unavoidable,  even  under  the  common  conditions  of  the 
field;  while  In  the  old  selection  theory  the  sacrificing  of  thou- 
sands of  lives  was  required  for  every  step  in  progressive 
development. 

In  the  last  ten  years  the  principle  of  character  units  has 
gained  a  firm  hold  for  itself  in  evolutionary  science.  It  has 
transferred  the  problems  from  the  domain  of  speculation  to 
that  of  experiment,  and  has  brought  the  teachings  of  Mendel 
(which  had  been  disregarded  up  to  that  time)  to  universal 
acknowledgment.  The  generally  accepted  view  of  the  con- 
tinuous intergradation  of  characters  Into  one  another  had 
for  a  long  time  been  in  the  way  of  a  broad  appreciation  of 
the  merits  of  the  principle  of  Mendel ;  but  the  theory  of  pan- 
genesis has  led  me  to  experiments  in  hybridization  which 
fully  confirmed  the  results  of  Mendel,  and  clearly  showed 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

their  high  importance.  Moreover,  the  lines  of  research  laid 
down  by  Mendel  proved  to  be  of  easy  application  to  an 
almost  unlimited  number  of  cases,  and  so  the  study  of  the 
last  ten  years  has  turned  in  the  main  to  them,  and  thereby  to 
a  great  extent  neglected  the  direct  investigation  of  the  origin 

of  new  forms. 

The  theory  of  mutation  is  not  intended  to  take  the  place  of 
the  theory  of  selection  of  Darwin.  It  is  only  one  step  fur- 
ther in  the  development  of  our  appreciation  of  evolutionary 
phenomena.  The  problem  of  the  theory  of  selection  is  the 
explanation  of  the  overwhelming  richness  of  living  forms  in 
nature.  It  has  succeeded  in  bringing  this  under  the  grasp  of 
our  understanding;  but  it  has  the  disadvantage  of  easily 
conducing  to  poetical  speculations  whenever  one  tries  to 
apply  the  general  views  to  single  cases.  In  such  cases  many 
authors  are  content  with  hypothetical  descriptions  of  what 
the  relations  of  the  phenomena  may  be  supposed  to  be.  Con- 
trary to  this  method,  the  theory  of  mutation  deals  with  the 
problem  of  the  origin  of  the  material  from  which  natural 
selection  chooses.  At  the  time  of  Darwin  the  distinction 
between  fluctuation  and  mutation  had  not  yet  been  discov- 
ered; but  as  soon  as  this  was  the  case  it  was  clear  that  only 
the  latter  process  could  supply  the  material  for  further  selec- 
tion. This  principle  at  once  got  rid  of  numerous  difficulties 
which  up  to  that  period  seemed  to  be  Inherent  in  the  teach- 
ings of  Darwin. 

Among  those  who  supported  the  new  theory  in  its  first 
years,  although  with  some  reserve,  I  cite  in  the  first  place 
Strasburger,  who  wrote  as  early  as  1902  "that  the  forma- 
tion of  species  does  not  start  from  fluctuating  variability,  but 
from  mutations,"  and  that  especially  "for  the  place  of  an 
organism  in  the  natural  system  the  degree  of  development 
reached  by  all  the  successive  mutations  is  decisive."^     He 

1  "Jahrb.  f.  wiss.  Bot,"  T.  37,  1902,  p.  518. 


\ 


li 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

was  soon  followed  by  the  larger  part  of  the  botanists,  al- 
though many  among  them  took  exception  for  the  adaptation 
of  species  to  their  environment. 

Among  paleontologists,  Charles  A.  White  was  the  first  to 
take  publicly  the  side  of  the  theory  of  mutation,^  and  the 
most  prominent  representatives  of  this  science  soon  adhered 
to  his  ideas.     It  might  perhaps  be  said  that  in  no  other 
domain  has  the  new  principle  been  so  rapidly  and  so  gener- 
ally acknowledged.     Here  numerous  facts  are  in  evident 
contradiction  to  the  idea  of  an  extremely  slow  evolution 
among  fossil  plants  as  well  as  animals.     Other  facts  clearly 
show  ''that  the  degree  of  mutability  of  species  has  not  always 
been  the  same  during  the  geological  periods  of  their  exis- 
tence, but  is  evidently  subjected  to  changes"  (p.  638).    This 
sentence  corresponds  exactly  to  my  conception  of  periods  of 
mutability.     Life  before  the  Cambrian  times  is  wholly  un- 
known to  us;  but  in  this  period  all  the  main  branches  of  the 
animal  kingdom  at  once  make  their  appearance,  with  the 
exception  of  the  vertebrates  only.     Only  by  means  of  very 
complicated   hypotheses   could   the   old   conception   explain 
these  broad  facts.    Among  the  floras  of  all  times  that  of  the 
Carboniferous  period  has  without  any  doubt  been  by  far  the 
richest;  it  appeared  suddenly,  and  afterward  disappeared 
almost  at  once.     Many  types  of  organisms  have  escaped  the 
changing  influence  of  natural  selection  during  a  long  succes- 
sion of  geological  times,  as,  for  instance,  the  genus  Unio, 
which  has  come  to  us  almost  without  any  modification  from 
the  Mesozoic  period.     In  the  Tertiary  layers  of  Florida, 
Dall  has  pointed  out  the  occurrence  of  numerous   forms 
which  have  come  over  from  one  period  into  the  succeeding 
one,  and  which  are  still  in  part  among  living  species.     The 
evolution  of  the  pedigree  of  the  vertebrates  during  Tertiary 
times  has  been  an  exceedingly  rapid  one— by  far  too  fast  to 

^  Smithsonian  Report  for  1903,  pp.  631-640. 

1:522:] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

be  compatible  with  the  old  view  of  slow  improvement.  The 
same  conclusion  holds  good  for  birds,  for  fishes,  for 
phanerogamic  plants,  and  for  quite  a  number  of  smaller 
groups.  All  in  all,  the  geological  facts  plead  against  a  slow 
and  for  a  relatively  rapid  evolution,  thereby  justifying  the 
conception  of  modification  by  leaps.  Such  were  the  argu- 
ments of  White,  but  it  would  take  me  too  long  to  cite  them 
in  all  their  details. 

In  the  domain  of  zoology  the  old  and  the  new  conception 
are  still  sharply  opposed.  The  new^  ideas  easily  comply  with 
the  celebrated  theory  of  Hubrecht  concerning  the  evolution 
of  the  pedigree  of  the  vertebrates,  and  the  author  of  this 
view  has  more  than  once  vigorously  supported  my  ideas.  On 
the  other  hand,  Plate  is  still  among  the  adherents  of  the 
validity  of  the  unmodified  theory  of  selection. 

In  the  field  of  agriculture  the  new  conceptions  are  found 
to  be  in  full  harmony  with  the  experience  of  Hjalmar  Nils- 
son,  the  director  of  the  Swedish  agricultural  experiment  sta- 
tion at  Svalof.  By  means  of  elaborate  experiments  this 
investigator  has  shown  that  a  selection  of  fluctuating  differ- 
ences has  no  value  at  all  for  the  improvement  of  agricultural 
plants,  especially  cereals;  and  that  all  breeding  of  new  races 
must  start  from  a  careful  choice  of  the  best  among  the  ele- 
mentary races,  which  are  found  in  the  present  cultivated 
varieties.  The  unexpectedly  large  results  which  this  method 
has  rapidly  produced  have  gained  for  it  a  general  acknow- 
ledgment in  agricultural  circles,  and  the  principle  of  slow 
improvement  of  races  has  since  been  replaced  almost  wholly 
by  that  of  the  choice  of  single  mother-plants  ("enstaka 
moderplanterna'')  and  of  the  cultivation  of  pure  races  from 

their  seed. 

But  still  there  is  always  much  discussion  and  much  opposi- 
tion, and  therefore  it  may  be  useful  to  give  a  short  review  of 
the  main  arguments  which  seem  to  plead  against  the  new 

1:5233 


% 


'4 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

theory.  Before  doing  so,  I  might,  however,  point  out  two 
volumes  which,  from  different  points  of  view,  deal  with 
almost  all  the  questions  which  are  still  open  in  this  field  and 
give  a  fair  appreciation  of  the  arguments  brought  forward 
by  different  authors.  One  of  them  is  a  German  treatise  on 
^'Abstammungslehre^'  by  Buekers^;  the  other,  a  volume  in 
French  on  "Transformations  brusques  des  etres  vivants," 
written  by  L.  Blaringhem.^  The  first  of  these  two  books 
deals  mainly  with  the  questions  from  a  critical  point  of  view, 
and  is  very  exhaustive  in  this  respect;  while  Blaringhem 
supports  his  opinion  by  a  thorough  study  and  accurate  de- 
scription of  a  number  of  new  mutations  which  occurred  in 
his  cultures. 

Some  authors  have  asserted  that  the  theory  of  mutation 
has  been  deduced  from  the  doctrine  of  hybridism.  Others 
have  pretended  that  my  experiments  with  the  evening 
primrose  of  Lamarck  were  its  starting-point.  Both  these 
opinions  are  erroneous  from  the  historical  point  of  view  as 
well  as  from  a  logical  one.  The  mutation  theory  originated 
from  the  hypothesis  of  pangenesis.^  This  hypothesis  sug- 
gested to  Darwin  the  principle  of  the  units  which  he  called 
gemmules.  Every  one  of  these  represented,  in  his  opinion,  a 
visible  part  of  the  organism,  even  of  a  single  cell. 

According  to  my  conception,  the  units  correspond  to  the 
qualities  by  the  cooperation  of  which  the  whole  character  of 
the  organism  is  built  up.  Each  of  these  units  may  express 
itself  in  different  parts  of  the  individual.  It  is  from  this 
conception,  as  stated  above,  that  I  derived  the  hypothesis  of 
the  two  main  types  of  variability.  In  order  to  control  this 
deduction  by  means  of  experiments,  I  studied,  on  the  one 
hand,  variability  itself;  and,  on  the  other,  hybridism.     The 

1  Dr.  P.  G.  Buekers,  "Abstammungslehre,"  Leipzig,  1909,  §  354. 

2  "Bibliotheque  de  Philosophic  scientifique,"  Paris,  E.  Flammarion,  1911. 

8  See  A.  A.  W.  Hiibrecht,  in  "Popular  Science  Monthly,"  July,  1904,  p.  222, 
and  v.  Haecker,  ^'AUgemeine  Vererbungslehre,"  2®  Aufl.,  1912,  p.  287. 

1:524: 


■I 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

first  of  these  two  groups  of  experiments  included  over 
a  hundred  different  species,  some  of  which  showed  signs 
of  mutability,  while  by  far  the  larger  number  did  not.  A 
small  degree  of  the  propensity  to  produce  new  forms  was 
observed  in  Linaria  vulgaris,  Dahlia  variabilis,  Chrysan- 
themum segetum  and  Dracocephalum  moldavicum.  Among 
all  the  species  studied  by  me,  I  found,  however,  only  a  single 
one  which  showed  the  new  quality  in  quite  a  large  degree, 
producing  new  types  almost  every  year,  and  thereby  stimu- 
lating to  an  extensive  as  well  as  intensive  study.  I  supported 
this  inquiry  by  a  critical  review  of  the  numerous  facts  scat- 
tered through  the  literature  in  the  fields  of  agriculture,  hor- 
ticulture, teratology  and  other  sciences;  and,  almost  at  the 
same  time,  the  whole  range  of  observations  which  pleaded 
for  a  sudden  origin  of  cultivated  varieties  was  exhaustively 
collected  by  Korshinsky  from  the  horticultural  literature. 

Another  widely  distributed  error  is  the  opinion  that  the 
theory  of  mutation  is  opposed  to  the  principle  of  selection. 
It  is  even  asserted  sometimes  that  the  theory  of  selection 
should  have  been  replaced  by  it.  I  have  already  pointed 
out  that  the  real  service  done  by  Darwin  to  evolutionary  sci- 
ence lies  In  the  proposition  of  his  principle  of  explaining  the 
development  of  the  organisms  from  one  another,  in  its  main 
lines  as  well  as  in  Its  details,  on  the  basis  of  well  ascertained 
facts  only.  His  means  to  reach  this  aim  were  the  struggle 
for  life  and  the  survival  of  the  fittest— or.  In  one  word, 
natural  selection.  The  question  whence  the  material  for  this 
selection  was  derived  was  of  course  duly  and  fully  dealt 
with;  but  our  knowledge  of  the  phenomena  of  variability 
was  at  that  time  still  in  Its  Infancy,  and  far  from  being 
adequate  to  the  demands  Darwin  made  upon  It.  This  was 
the  reason  why  he  did  not  succeed  in  convincing  his  contem- 
poraries.    It  is  only  on  this  weak  point  that  the  theory  of 


\\ 


THE  RICE  IiNSTITUTE 

mutation  has  to  come  In.  Its  aim  Is  not  to  be  sought  in  the 
explanation  of  the  different  forms  of  life.  It  starts  from 
the  principle  that  the  changes  which  find  their  expression  in 
variability  are  intrinsically  connected  with  the  germ-plasm; 
that  they  are  provoked  within  this  substance  before  fecunda- 
tion, either  in  one  or  both  of  the  sexual  elements,  and  come 
to  light  only  afterward,  during  the  development  of  the  new 
individual.  Although  evidently  dependent  on  external  fac- 
tors, such  as  nutrition,  etc.,  they  are  not  each  related  to  these 
in  such  a  manner  that  it  would  already  be  possible  for  us  to 
explain  this  dependency  in  its  details.  The  older  and  some 
of  the  still  prevailing  theories  consider  that  the  changes  take 
place  first  in  the  growing  or  even  in  the  adult  organs,  and 
are  only  transferred  afterward  to  the  sexual  cells. 

From  a  general  point  of  view,  the  chances  of  a  new  idea 
finding  adherence  often  depend  In  a  great  degree  on  its  ap- 
plicability to  other  fields  of  inquiry  besides  its  own  experi- 
mental domain.  General  considerations  are  often  more 
decisive  than  pure  facts.  In  this  respect  the  mutation  theory 
has  the  great  advantage  of  easily  complying  with  the  most 
widely  divergent  conceptions  of  the  phenomena  of  adapta- 
tion. It  may  be  combined  with  these  even  more  intimately 
than  the  older  views,  as  I  shall  show  later  on. 

The  empirical  basis  of  the  new  teachings  is  the  distinction 
between  fluctuation  and  mutation.  The  first  is  the  ordinary 
form  of  variation,  often  called  individual,  gradual  or  con- 
tinuous variation,  and  well  known  to  Darwin  himself.  It  is 
almost  always  and  everywhere  active  in  a  lesser  or  in  a 
greater  degree.  Mutation,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  rare  and 
most  sporadic  phenomenon  only  rarely  occurring  in  groups, 
but  by  means  of  It  new  types  are  seen  to  arise  suddenly, 
sharply,  although  often  not  widely  distinct  from  the  parental 
type.     With  this  proposition  many  authors  have  since  ex- 

1:526] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

pressed  their  agreement,  and  In  one  of  the  newest  manuals 
Karsten  summarizes  the  now  prevailing  conviction  by  saying, 
"Spontaneous  variation  or  mutation  is  sharply  distinct  from 
fluctuation,  since  It  proceeds  by  leaps  and  at  once  produces 
hereditary  differences."^  And  even  the  most  ardent  oppo- 
nent of  my  view— Plate— in  concluding  his  lecture  on  "In- 
heritance and  the  Theory  of  Descent,"  says  that  "phyletical 
evolution  Is  discontinuous  in  the  changes  of  the  determinants, 
although  ordinarily  continuous  In  Its  external  display"  ;2  and 
in  doing  so  he  evidently  concedes  the  main  point  in  dis- 
cussion. 

Fluctuations  are  quantitative  variations,  but  mutations  are 
of  the  qualitative  kind.  Under  the  influence  of  selection,  the 
first  do  not  produce  constant  races  which  become  Indepen- 
dent from  that  selection,  while  the  products  of  mutation  are 
at  once  of  an  hereditary  nature  and  constant.  This  prin- 
ciple has  brought  the  study  of  elementary  species  into  the 
first  rank  of  biological  interest.  The  investigations  of  Jor- 
dan, de  Bary  and  many  others  had  not  succeeded  In  con- 
vincing biologists  and  systematlsts  of  the  truth  that  the 
species  of  LInnasus  are  in  reality  collective  entities,  and  that 
the  real  units  of  nature  are  the  so-called  small  species.  It  Is 
quite  evident  that  it  is  impossible  to  observe  the  origin  of 
such  a  collective  species,  since  the  conception  is  partly,  at 
least,  of  an  artificial  nature.  But  now  the  origin  of  the  small 
species  has  become  an  object  of  direct  Inquiry.  One  of  the 
oldest  objections  against  the  theory  of  descent  has  thereby 
been  surmounted  forever.  Even  in  the  field  of  pure  descrip- 
tion the  new  ideas  have  their  influence.  It  is  conceded  that 
even  the  so-called  type  specimens  might  not  be  homogeneous 

1  Nussbaum,  Karsten  unci  Weber,  "Lehrbuch  der  Biologic  fur  Hochschulen," 

Leipzig,  191 1,  p.  295.  .     ,, 

2L.   Plate,   "Festschrift  zum   sechzigsten   Geburtstage  Richard   Hertwigs, 

Bd.  II,  1910,  p.  607. 


\i 


.  «      f.    ^.m',.*!^-*.*  «».,<f,. ^:   %ie.   »»'  -»-«■ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

if  they  are  based  on  different  individuals  collected  in  the  field. 
Small  differences  of  the  nature  of  those  existing  between 
elementary  species  might  occur  among  them  and  sooner  or 
later  become  the  source  of  misunderstanding.  A  pure  proto- 
type can  evidently  not  be  secured  in  this  way,  or  at  least  its 
purity  cannot  be  guaranteed.  Starting  from  these  considera- 
tions, Kellerman  and  Swingle  have  lately  pointed  out  the 
necessity  of  taking  all  the  type  specimens  for  one  species 
from  one  single  individual,  and  proposed  to  distinguish  those 
which  comply  with  this  principle  by  the  name  of  merotypes.^ 

One  of  the  greatest  difficulties  of  the  theory  of  selection 
as  worked  out  by  Darwin  is  found  in  the  fact  that  changes 
which  after  some  degree  of  development  may  be  advan- 
tageous to  their  possessors  cannot  be  of  any  use  to  them  at 
their  first  appearance  as  almost  invisible  deviations  from  the 
old  type,  and  even  during  a  long  period  afterward.  Not- 
withstanding this,  the  theory  requires  their  being  selected 
from  among  the  others,  and  this  on  the  ground  of  their  use- 
fulness. This  objection  has  been  dealt  with  exhaustively  by 
a  large  number  of  authors;  but  in  the  last  ten  years  all  of 
them  agree  in  conceding  that  it  has  been  successfully  met 
with  by  the  principle  of  mutation. 

One  of  the  main  supports  for  the  ideas  of  Darwin  was  a 
comparison  of  selection  as  used  in  agricultural  practice  with 
the  corresponding  phenomena  in  nature.  Unfortunately,  the 
descriptions  of  their  procedures  given  by  the  leading  agri- 
culturists were  far  from  adequate  to  the  use  Darwin  wanted 
to  make  of  them.  On  the  one  hand,  he  succeeded  in  proving 
the  analogy  between  artificial  and  natural  selection  by  heap- 
ing up  an  overpowering  material  of  facts,  and  it  seems  to  me 
that  this  proof  has  been  one  of  the  principal  factors  in  the 

1  Journal  of  the  Washington  Academy  of  Sciences,  Vol.  II,  May,  1912,  No. 
9,  p.  222. 

[528] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

victory  which  his  theory  has  so  completely  gained.    But  the 
agriculturists  themselves  did  not  clearly  understand  their 
practice,  and  even  partially  explained  it  in  an  erroneous  way, 
and  these  errors  were  transferred  unobservedly  to  the  theory 
of  natural  selection.    It  was  only  a  critical  study  of  the  clas- 
sical   and   thoroughly    scientifically    conducted    cultures    of 
Rimpau  in  selecting  his  rye  which  yielded  a  satisfactory,  al- 
though belated,  understanding  of  the  whole  phenomenon.^ 
I  found  out  that  Rimpau,  although  believing  he  was  selecting 
only  the  richest  ears  from  among  a  uniform  race,  in  reality 
chose  the  best  elementary  species  from  a  motley  mixture  of 
types.     From  the  progeny  of  his  handful  of  chosen  ears  he 
subsequently  eliminated  the  minor  ones,  until  by  means  of  a 
selection  of  some  ten  to  twenty  ears  he  finally  reached  a 
pure  race,  which,  according  to  our  present  conception,  must 
have  consisted  only  of  the  progeny  of  the  very  best  one  of 
the  ears  he  chose  in  the  beginning.    Such  a  pure  race  was  no 
longer  exposed  to  reversions,  and  this  has  been  thoroughly 
proved  in  the  case  of  the  rye  of  Rimpau  by  the  cultures  of 
Schribaux  in  northern  France.     At  present  the  principle  is 
universally  recognized.     We  may  safely  transfer  it  to  the 
comparison  of  artificial  and  natural  selection  as  proposed  by 
Darwin,  and  conclude  from  it  that  Nature  herself  does  not 
select  her  new  species  from  fluctuating  variations,  but  from 
the  existing  small  types,  or,  in  the  end,  from  mutations  that 
occurred  at  a  previous  time. 

I  now  come  to  a  consideration  of  the  two  principal 
theories  which  have  secured  for  themselves  quite  a  number 
of  adherents  and  are  still  defended  by  many  authors  as 
auxiliaries  of  the  old  theory  of  selection.  I  mean  the  prin- 
ciples of  orthogenesis  and  neo-Lamarckism,  or  the  theory  of 
direct  influences.     The  former  of  these  refers  to  the  main 

1  Proceedings,  American  Philosophical  Society,  Vol.  XLV,  1906,  pp.  149-156. 

[529] 


11 


4 

I  mil 


} 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

lines  in  the  pedigree  of  the  animal  and  vegetable  kingdoms, 
the  latter  to  the  adaptations  in  the  ultimate  branches  of  these 
pedigree  trees.  In  my  opinion,  neither  of  them  is  opposed  to 
the  teachings  of  the  theory  of  mutation,  especially  since  they 
are  destined  for  quite  another  field  of  phenomena. 

This  is  clearly  shown  by  the  curious  circumstance  that  the 
adherents  of  orthogenesis  recognize  the  validity  of  the  new 
theory  for  the  explanation  of  adaptations,  while  the  neo- 
Lamarckists  declare  it  to  be  valuable  only  for  the  origin 
of  the  larger  branches  of  the  system.  All  of  them  recognize 
the  process  of  mutation  as  the  normal  mode  of  origin  of 
species,  and  make  an  exception  only  for  the  field  in  which 
they  are  especially  engaged.^ 

Before  continuing  this  discussion,  it  is,  however,  neces- 
sary to  deal  with  the  distinction  between  characters  of  or- 
ganization and  those  of  adaptation  as  proposed  by  Nageli. 
The  former  are  the  marks  of  natural  families  and  of  higher 
groups;  they  have  been  evolved  in  very  old  geological  times, 
and  our  knowledge  concerning  the  climate  and  the  life  con- 
ditions of  those  periods  is  necessarily  limited  to  a  general 
outline  and  does  not  justify  us  in  making  a  distinct  idea  of 
the  environmental  conditions  of  the  single  species  and  of  the 
claims  made  upon  them  by  the  struggle  for  life.     Therefore 
it  is  hardly  possible  to  deal  with  the  causes  of  their  evolution 
and  of  the  origin  of  new  types  of  life  with  any  higher  degree 
of  probability  than  that  of  more  or  less  poetical  descrip- 
tions.2    These  characters  of  organization  are  often  supposed 
to  have  originated  in  a  manner  essentially  different  from 
that  of  the  characters  of  adaptation.     In  the  former  case, 

iVon  Wettsteln,  ''Handbuch  der  systematischen  Botanik,"  1901  p  ^6* 
Strasburger,  "Jahrb.  f.  wiss.  Bot.,"  1902,  T.  37,  p.  518  u.  A.  '   t-   3   y 

-  This  expression  is  not  meant  to  include  the  least  reproach.  On  the  con- 
trary, I  myself  often  prefer  using  such  forms  of  speech,  trusting  that  my 
readers  will  recognize  them  for  what  they  are  intended  to  be.  Critics  who 
failed  to  see  this  point  more  than  once  have  given  me  great  amusement. 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

internal  causes  are  assumed  to  be  the  most  essential  factors; 
while  in  the  latter  this  role  is  given  to  the  external  conditions. 

Adaptation  is  limited  to  the  very  youngest  qualities  of 
animals  and  plants,  and  this  is  carefully  pointed  out  by  the 
most  prominent  among  living  neo-Lamarckists,  von  Wett- 
stein.  He  says,  "As  far  as  experience  goes,  we  may  assert 
that  by  means  of  direct  adaptation  nothing  absolutely  new  is 
produced  but  that  its  results  are  in  the  main  directed  to  an 
augmentation  or  a  diminution  of  properties  already  pres- 
ent." And  to  this  sentence  he  joins  another,  which  elimi- 
nates all  possible  doubt,  and  which  says  that,  after  long  times 
of  direct  adaptation  and  after  the  disappearance  of  such 
transitional  forms  as  it  may  have  produced,  ''the  impression 
of  an  essential  deviation"  may  be  made  upon  us.^ 

From  this  discussion  it  is  clear  that  the  characters  of 
organization  and  adaptation  do  not  cover  the  whole  field  of 
systematic  differences.  The  former  are  limited  to  those  be- 
tween the  larger  groups;  and  it  is  characteristic  of  them  that 
they  do  not  show  any  relation  to  the  struggle  for  life  — at 
least  not  at  the  present  time.  The  characters  of  adaptation, 
on  the  other  hand,  are  the  marks  of  the  youngest  of  all  the 
systematic  groups,  and  are,  as  a  rule,  limited  to  species  and 
subspecies.  Between  the  two  divisions  there  is  a  wide  gap; 
but  this  field  includes,  curiously  enough,  exactly  those  cases 
which  are  the  most  interesting  ones  for  the  great  principle 
of  evolution.  Large,  and  therefore,  at  all  events,  not  very 
young  groups,  like  most  of  the  cactaceous  and  euphorbia- 
ceous  plants,  in  many  cases  show  the  most  beautiful  and 
stringent  arrangements  for  a  life  under  strongly  specialized 
conditions.  These,  however,  are  to  be  included  neither  with 
the  marks  of  organization  as  described  by  Nageli,  nor  with 
those  of  adaptation  as  proposed  by  von  Wettsteln.    There- 

1 R.  von  Wettsteln,  "Handbuch,"  /.  c,  p.  44. 

1:531: 


I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

fore  It  seems  unavoidable  to  collect  them  Into  a  new  division, 
for  which  it  seems  practical  to  choose  the  name  of  characters 
of  specialization.  For  the  cases  to  be  covered  by  this  expres- 
sion are  taken  from  plants  which  show  a  high  degree  of 
differentiation  on  very  special  lines;  and  the  question 
whether  this  is  useful  or  only  Innoxious  to  them  is  one  which 
it  is  at  best  hardly  possible  to  decide  on  a  purely  empirical 
basis.  But  on  the  layman  they  make  the  impression  of  the 
most  beautiful  adaptations. 

Warming  has  distinctly  pointed  out  that  the  real  nature  of 
orthogenesis,  as  well  as  of  direct  influence,  Is  not  clear  to  us. 
The  latter  of  the  two  principles  assumes  an  intimate  correla- 
tion between  the  external  factors  and  the  usefulness  of  the 
deviations  produced  by  them,  but  in  Warming's  opinion  this 
relation  is  "of  obscure  nature.'*^  Therefore  It  seems  jus- 
tifiable to  assume  that  this  direct  Influence  Is  not  a  single 
mystic  force  of  nature,  but  the  result  of  the  combination  of  a 
larger  or  lesser  number  of  such  forces.  But  in  this  case  it 
must  be  possible  to  make  an  analysis  of  them,  and  It  strikes 
me  that  the  theory  of  mutation  is  capable  of  supplying  us 
with  precisely  the  necessary  means  for  this  purpose. 

The  same  reasoning  and  conclusion  hold  good  for  the 
principle  of  orthogenesis.  Concerning  this  Coulter  says: 
"Long  ago  It  seemed  possible  to  consider  It  to  be  'a  mys- 
terious principle  Inherent  in  organic  life,'  or  as  an  Internal 
force  which  determined  the  direction  of  variabilltv;  but  In 
our  time,  since  the  role  of  environmental  conditions  and  the 
whole  group  of  external  factors  have  come  into  the  fore- 
ground of  biological  interest,  this  conception  can  no  longer 
be  considered  as  sufficient.  But,  at  all  events,  we  hardly 
know  how  these  external  factors  really  Influence  evolution, 

1  Warming,  "Ecology  of  Plants,"  1909,  p.  370. 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

and  which  is  their  true  nature."^  And  in  connection  with 
this  he  remarks  that  natural  selection,  mutation  and  ortho- 
genesis are  far  from  excluding  one  another. 

Let  us  now  consider  these  three  groups  separately.  In 
the  case  of  orthogenesis  we  may  limit  ourselves  to  two 
points.  First,  the  suggestion  that  it  is  not  variation,  but 
selection,  which  has  been  working  in  the  same  direction  dur- 
ing long  geological  times.  And  although,  as  already  pointed 
out,  we  know  very  little  about  the  factors  of  the  struggle  for 
life  In  those  remote  times,  this  question  seems  to  claim  full 
appreciation.  If  we  decide  for  a  continuity  in  the  selection, 
variability  may  be  assumed  as  occurring  in  indistinct  direc- 
tions, even  at  those  times.  If,  however,  we  take  the  opposite 
point  of  view,  it  remains  an  open  question  whether  the  one- 
sided variability  which  we  must  then  assume  was  of  the 
nature  of  fluctuation  or  of  mutation.  And  since  the  former 
determines  only  an  augmentation  or  a  diminution  of  qualities 
already  present,  we  should  conclude  with  the  conception  of 
series  of  mutations  taking  place  in  an  unchanged  direction. 
This  would  bring  us  In  line  with  the  proposition  of  indistinct 
mutability,  since  evidently  all  mutations  which  would  take 
place  In  divergent  directions  would  sooner  or  later  have  to 
disappear.  Be  this  as  it  may,  my  aim  is  only  to  show  that, 
even  in  such  an  hypothetical  field,  the  theory  of  mutation  has 
the  best  chance  of  complying  with  our  knowledge  of  the 
available  facts,  without  the  need  of  recurring  to  secondary 
hypotheses.  I  have  already  pointed  out  that  the  paleontol- 
ogists are  best  prepared  to  recognize  the  principle  of  muta- 
tion for  orthogenetic  evolution.  In  concluding  it  seems  to 
me  that  orthogenesis  may  best  be  explained  as  produced  by 
successive  mutations,  which  themselves  have  been  conducted 
by  orthogenetic  selection. 

1  Coulter,  Barnes  and  Cowles,  "Textbook  of  Botany,"  Vol.  I,  p.  290. 

D33] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

The  conception  that  characters  of  adaptation  cannot  be 
due  to  selection,  but  must  be  induced  by  direct  environmental 
influences,  was  formerly  derived  in  the  main  from  the  fact 
that  very  small  deviations  from  a  given  type  can  have  hardly 
any  advantage  in  the  struggle  for  life,  while  the  theory  of 
natural  selection  must  assume  a  distinct  activity  of  its  prin- 
ciple from  the  very  beginning.^    As  is  well  known,  this  diffi- 
culty is  met  with  in  the  most  satisfactory  manner  by  the  theory 
of  mutation,   and  on  this  point  almost  all   authors  agree. 
Different  propositions  for  reconciliation  have  been  made. 
Thus,  for  example,  the  direct  influence  of  the  environment 
seems  sufficient  to  von  Wettstein,  while  Strasburger  holds  the 
opinion  that  it  must  always  be  accompanied  by  selection  in 
order  to  take  its  effect.    Evidently  such  an  assumption  would 
make  the  whole  theory  superfluous. 

Two  objections  must  still  be  considered.  In  the  first 
place,  it  should  be  pointed  out  that  the  differential  characters 
on  which  the  diagnostic  descriptions  of  species  are  based  are 
rarely  of  the  nature  of  adaptations.  In  the  second  place,  a 
most  common  source  of  confusion  is  the  lack  of  a  sharp  dis- 
tinction between  plasticity  and  phylogenetic  adaptation. 

If,  in  botanical  excursions  or  in  determining  the  identity 
of  collected  plants,  we  have  an  eye  open  for  the  question 
concerning  the  meaning  of  the  distinguishing  characters  for 
the  plants  themselves,  we  must  usually  concede  that  they  are 
in  reality  far  from  having  any  real  usefulness,  or  that  at  least 
we  cannot  point  out  their  use  if  we  limit  ourselves  to  purely 
empirical  arguments;  for  example,  Ranunculus  hulbosus  and 
R.  Philonotis  have  the  slips  of  their  calyx  turned  downward; 
Myosotis  versicolor  opens  its  flowers  before  the  corolla  as* 
sumes  the  blue  color;  Viola  arvensis  has  a  calyx  which  is 
longer  than  the  corolla;  umbelliferous  plants  are  often  dis- 

1  Von  Wettstein,  "Handbuch,"  p.  39. 
1:5343 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

tinguished  by  the  occurrence  or  the  absence  of  a  common  or  a 
partial  involucrum;  Spergula  Morisonii  has  a  narrow  mem- 
branaceous ring  around  its  seeds;  the  species  of  Taraxacum 
and  other  groups  are  often  apogamous;  and  so  on  in  an  end- 
less series  of  arguments.  What  is  the  use  of  such  qualities? 
The  answer  is,  as  a  rule,  none  at  all,  since  the  nearest  allies 
are  as  successful  in  their  struggle  for  life  without  them.  This 
is  true  in  a  still  higher  degree  for  the  distinguishing  marks  of 
elementary  species,  and,  as  has  been  pointed  out  by  Willis, 
for  those  endemisms  which  are  not  relicts  but  are  growing 
still  In  the  midst  of  their  presumed  ancestors.^  Very  often 
erroneous  conceptions  concerning  the  use  of  distinct  qualities 
are  seen  to  prevail.  Thus  the  red  color  of  many  flowers  is 
presumed  to  attract  some  species  of  insects  and  to  find  its 
use  In  this;  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  It  is  often  only  a  local 
expression  of  a  quality  which  may  be  seen  in  activity  in  other 
parts  of  the  organism  as  well.  Many  white  varieties  of  red 
or  blue  species  are  weaker  In  the  struggle  for  life  than  their 
ancestors,  and  this  is  the  reason  why  they  so  regularly  dis- 
appear very  soon  after  making  a  local  appearance.  This 
struggle  for  life  is  not  fought  out  by  means  of  the  flowers, 
but  during  the  vegetative  period,  wholly  independent  of  the 
visits  of  insects  and  the  question  of  fecundation.  This  is  best 
seen  in  perennial  plants  or  in  small  shrubs  where  the  red  or 
blue  flowering  forms  are  often  seen  to  hold  their  ground, 
while  the  white  ones  are  Incapable  of  doing  so.  I  cite,  for 
Instance,  a  culture  of  Daphne  Mezereum  and  of  its  white 
variety,  both  In  a  number  of  specimens.  The  white  ones 
were  weak  and  succumbed  to  our  climate  after  some  years; 
while  the  red  ones  were  continually  seen  to  thrive.  Between 
Ranunculus  bulbosus  and  /?.  Philonotis  it  is  not  those  char- 
acters that  may  be  studied  on  dried  material  which  are 

1  See  F.  Graebner,  "Lehrbuch  der  Pflanzengeographie,"  1910,  p.  70. 

D35n 


i  • 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

decisive  in  the  struggle  for  life.  On  the  contrary,  the  result 
depends  on  the  predilection  of  the  former  for  a  dry  soil,  and 
of  the  latter  for  moist  meadow-land.  Numerous  instances 
of  the  same  kind  might  be  given,  and  it  seems  to  me  that 
they  would  exceed  by  far  the  number  of  those  cases  in  which 
elementary  characters,  as  opposed  to  compound  ones,  might 
be  proved  to  be  useful. 

Those  cases  in  which  the  production  of  new  species  has 
been  ascribed  to  the  direct  influence  of  the  environment  may 
commonly  be  explained  on  the  principle  of  mutations  as 
easily  as  on  that  of  the  accumulation  of  very  small  and  al- 
most invisible  deviations. 

Seasonal  dimorphism  is  one  of  the  most  widely  known 
arguments  of  von  Wettstein.  Some  plants  of  the  alpine 
meadows  occur  in  two  elementary  forms,  one  of  which  flow- 
ers and  ripens  its  seeds  before  the  summer  period  of  mow- 
ing, while  the  other  begins  its  vigorous  growth  only  as  soon 
as  this  period  is  over.  At  that  time,  when  the  great  sig- 
nificance and  the  general  occurrence  of  elementary  species 
were  not  yet  realized,  it  seemed  allowable  to  assume  for  this 
case  a  special  process  of  adaptation.  But,  in  the  light  of  our 
present  knowledge,  the  other  assumption  is  at  least  as  fully 
justified— viz.,  that  the  mowing  has  simply  selected,  from 
among  a  group  of  preexisting  forms,  those  which  did  not 
suffer  by  it  in  the  one  way  or  in  the  other.  Unconscious 
selection  would  then  have  acted  here  just  in  the  same  way  as 
conscious  artificial  selection  does  elsewhere.  In  this  way  the 
proposition  of  direct  environmental  influences  may  be  easily 
and  advantageously  combined  with  the  principle  of  the 
origin  of  species  by  mutation.  Species  have  the  power  of 
adapting  themselves  to  the  prevailing  conditions  of  life,  but 
they  do  this  by  means  of  the  great  number  of  elementary 
forms  of  which  each  of  them  consists. 

1:536] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

The  other  objection  was  that  connected  with  the  phenom- 
ena of  plasticity.     By  this  term  is  meant  the  power  of  many 
species  to  live  under  quite  different  conditions.     Not  rarely 
this  is  associated  with  striking  changes  in  their  dimensions 
and  in  other  characters ;  and  these  differences  may  be  so  large 
as  to  be  taken  for  specific  ones  on  first  inspection.    The  best 
known  example  is  that  of  Polygonum  amphibium,  which  has 
a  terrestrial  form  and  a  floating  one.     Some  authors  have 
described  the  former  of  these  as  another  species  and  have 
given  it  the  name  of  Polygonum  Hartwrightii.    But  Massart 
has  shown  that  by  transferring  one  of  the  two  forms  to  the 
life  conditions  of  the  other  it  is  always  possible  to  change  it 
into  the  other  type,  and  that  even  both  types  may  be  devel- 
oped as  branches   from  the   same  plant,   provided  this   is 
growing  just  at  the  margin  of  the  water.     In  the  case  of 
alpine  plants  Bonnier  has  shown  that  it  suffices  to  transplant 
a  part  of  a  rhizome  into  the  plain  to  make  the  new  stems 
assume  the  type  that  is  known  to  be  characteristic  for  the 
new  conditions.     In  almost  all  cases  where  plants  may  be 
multiplied  In  a  vegetative  way  it  is  possible,  In  accordance 
with  this  principle,  to  show  that  their  plasticity   (which  is 
often  called  their  adaptability)  is  a  latent  quality  capable  of 
coming  into  action  at  once  in  response  to  changes  in  environ- 
mental conditions.    From  perennial  species  we  may  conclude 
that  the  same  must  hold  good  for  annual  ones  too.     The 
capability  of  many  ordinary  weeds,  which  like  a  soil  rich  in 
saltpeter  or  in  other  nitrogenous  substances,  to  attain  gi- 
gantic dimensions  under  such  conditions  while  they  remain 
dwarfish  on  poor  or  dry  soil,  even  in  such  a  degree  as  to 
conclude  their  growth  after  the  production  of  a  single  fruit, 
as,  for  example.  Is  seen  In  Datura  Stramonium,  Is  no  doubt 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  instances  of  adaptability;  but  it  is 

[537] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

evident  that  it  does  not  involve  any  change  in  the  hereditary 
qualities. 

In  all  such  cases  it  is  clear  that  the  assumed  analogy  be- 
tween these  adaptations  and  the  origin  of  new  species  is  only 
apparent.  Qualities  may  lie  dormant  for  thousands  of  years, 
as  in  the  case  of  the  alpine  plants,  and  under  changed  condi- 
tions come  suddenly  into  activity  again;  they  will  evidently 
do  this  every  time  that  the  corresponding  stimulus  excites 
them.  Without  any  doubt,  many  of  these  qualities  are  use- 
ful, but  this  does  not  prove  that  they  have  originated  on 
account  of  their  usefulness.  The  conception  that  they  owe 
their  existence  to  some  mutation,  and  in  this  respect  follow 
the  general  rule,  has  at  least  the  same  degree  of  probability. 
In  this  case  no  supplementary  hypotheses  would  be  neces- 
sarv.  The  researches  of  Costantin,  Goebel,  Klebs,  Stahl, 
Vochting,  Frank,  Karsten  and  many  others  have  brought  our 
knowledge  concerning  the  phenomena  of  plasticity  to  a  high 
degree  of  development;  everywhere  it  may  be  seen,  however, 
that  the  resemblance  to  the  processes  of  the  origin  of  species 
has  no  real  signification.  Nature  often  gives  us  the  impres- 
sion of  a  most  beautiful  harmony  between  living  organisms 
and  their  environment,  and  thereby  between  the  latter  and 
their  ontogenetic  evolution,  and  it  is  all  too  tempting  to  con- 
clude from  this  that  organisms  as  a  rule  have  been  adapted 
to  their  life  conditions.  This  conclusion,  however,  is  in  many 
cases  only  a  postulate  and  does  not  rest  upon  an  empirical 
ground.  It  goes  without  saying  that  animals  and  plants  can- 
not live  under  extremely  unfavorable  or  injurious  conditions, 
and  that,  for  this  reason,  we  must  find  everywhere  better  or 
less  fitted  forms.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  most  plants  are 
contented  in  nature  with  an  environment  which  is  far  from 
being  the  best  for  them;  and  where  the  trade  happens  to 
bring  their  seeds  to  other  countries,  they  are  often  seen  to 

[538] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

thrive  far  better  and  to  multiply  with  unexpected  rapidity. 
It  is  a  curious  fact  that  they  are  best  adapted  to  conditions 
which  are  quite  new  to  them  and  which  they  never  enjoyed 

before. 

Our  third  division  was  that  of  the  characters  of  specializa- 
tion. It  lies  between  that  of  the  qualities  of  organization  of 
Nageli,  which  have  no  relation  to  the  surrounding  world, 
and  the  consequences  of  adaptation  of  von  Wettstein,  which 
do  not  produce  any  really  new  steps  in  the  line  of  evolution. 
Every  student  must  be  struck  by  the  fact  that  the  most  beau- 
tiful examples  of  so-called  adaptations  are  found  In  the  dis- 
tinguishing marks,  not  of  species  but  of  genera  and  the  larger 
groups,  even  of  whole  families.  In  a  geological  sense  they 
are  therefore  so  old  that  an  appreciation  of  the  single  factors 
of  the  environmental  conditions  under  which  they  have  orig- 
inated must  necessarily  be  Impossible.  As  a  rule,  such  adap- 
tations do  not  consist  in  a  single  quality,  but  In  very 
complicated  and  highly  developed  arrangements,  which  can 
have  been  attained  only  by  a  series  of  successive  changes.  I 
refer  to  the  flowers  of  the  orchids,  to  insectivorous  plants,  to 
many  cases  of  climbing  species,  to  the  tubers  on  the  roots  of 
the  leguminous  plants,  to  the  Cactacea  and  Euphorhiacea  of 
the  desert,  and  so  on.  All  of  them  are  specialized  In  a  very 
high  degree,  and  this  we  assume  to  be  of  use  to  them,  at  least 
in  many  cases.  But  It  seems  to  me  that  this  usefulness  is 
most  liable  to  overestimation,  and  in  reality  consists  mostly 
In  a  compensation  of  other  hurtful  qualities.  Later  Inves- 
tigations have  shown,  more  than  once,  that  the  presumed  use 
does  not  exist  at  all— In  any  case,  not  at  the  present  time. 
For  Instance,  let  us  take  the  heterostyly  of  the  primroses, 
which  according  to  Weiss,  Is  more  hurtful  than  useful ;  or  the 
flowers  of  Orchis  and  Ophrys,  which  discourage  insects 
rather  than  Invite  them  to  visit,  as  was  discovered  by  Detto. 

[539] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

The  anthers  of  Mimuliis  and  Torenla,  which  contain  a  large 
supply  of  good  pollen  but  never  open,  must  be  considered 
simply  a  useless  waste  of  material.  The  Drosera  has  no 
apparent  advantage  at  all  in  its  ability  to  catch  insects,  when 
we  compare  its  distribution  and  the  rate  of  its  multiplication 
with  that  of  the  species  with  which  it  lives;  on  a  rich  soil  it 
thrives  just  as  well  without  the  food  supplied  to  it  by  the 
insects.  The  species  of  Utricularia  are  adapted  in  the  most 
beautiful  manner  to  capture  small  animals,  but  that  this 
should  be  advantageous  to  them  in  their  struggle  with  neigh- 
boring plants  nobody  can  prove. 

If,  however,  we  concede  that  they  have  originated  as  the 
result  of  their  usefulness,  we  do  not  gain  any  real  under- 
standing of  the  different  factors  of  these  complicated  qual- 
ities. Neither  this  assumption  nor  experience  can  decide 
whether  the  units  out  of  which  these  qualities  have  been  built 
up  have  had  their  origin  in  sudden  leaps,  or  in  the  accumula- 
tion of  slow  and  originally  invisible  changes.  In  other 
words,  they  may  be  due  to  mutations  as  well  as  to  fluctua- 
tions, and  to  the  activity  of  orthogenesis  as  well  as  to  that  of 
direct  environmental  influence.  From  this  point  of  view, 
there  is  not  the  least  justification  in  assuming  special  supple- 
mentary hypotheses  for  their  explanation.  The  conception 
that  these  characters  of  specialization  have  originated  in 
quite  the  same  manner  as  any  other  distinguishing  marks  of 
species  as  well  as  of  the  larger  groups  has  evidently  the  same 
right,  and  perhaps  even  a  greater  right,  to  our  appreciation 
than  any  special  assumption. 

Leaving  these  considerations  of  a  more  general  nature, 
we  may  now  return  to  the  experimental  side  of  the  question. 
Here  two  propositions  demand  a  careful  treatment.  The 
first  of  them  is  the  sentence  that  fluctuations  cannot,  by 
means  of  the  cooperation  of  selection,  lead  to  constant  races, 

1:5403 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

which  should  be  independent  of  a  continuance  of  that  same 
selection.  The  second  proposition  is  the  contention  that 
mutations  do  produce  such  constant  races. 

In  the  realm  of  selection  the  first  principle  is  to  distinguish 
sharply  between  pure  elementary  species  and  the  collective 
species  of  the  systematists.  On  the  one  hand,  we  may  try  to 
Improve  the  small  species  themselves  by  means  of  selection; 
on  the  other,  we  are  concerned  simply  with  a  choice  from 
among  the  mixed  groups  of  already  constant  and  hereditary 
types.  Any  doubt  which  may  have  existed  concerning  the 
reality  of  this  distinction  has  of  late  been  completely  sur- 
mounted by  the  practical  processes  of  breeding  which  have 
been  introduced  by  Nilsson  into  agriculture,  and  which  were 
founded  on  his  deep  scientific  knowledge  of  the  problems 
with  which  he  had  to  deal.  The  pure  races  which  he  suc- 
ceeded in  isolating  from  the  old  mixed  varieties  of  cereals 
may  still  produce  deviations  in  the  way  of  mutations  or  as  a 
result  of  accidental  crosses,  but  these  changes  always  occur 
suddenly.  It  is  not  possible  to  improve  his  strains  as  such  by 
means  of  continuous  selection.  The  sam^e  is  true  of  many  of 
the  older  agricultural  races  which  have  been  won  by  a  more 
or  less  unconscious  process  of  selection. 

Within  the  elementary  species,  artificial  selection  in  many 
cases  may  be  conducive  to  real  improvements  which  in  a 
sense  are  hereditary.  In  others,  however,  this  result  seems 
not  to  be  attainable.  But  in  any  case  such  races  do  not 
become  independent  of  continued  selection.  Especially 
instructive  in  this  respect  is  the  history  of  the  cultivated 
sugar-beets.  From  a  broader  point  of  view,  our  beets  con- 
sist of  a  number  of  elementary  species,  and  any  large  breeder 
has,  as  a  rule,  his  own  kind  which  he  has  purified  by  means 
of  selection.  The  principle  of  the  culture  of  separate  fam- 
ilies is  followed.     It  starts  from  single  mother-plants,  and 

C540 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

every  family  Is  the  progeny  of  only  one  such  specimen.  The 
possible,  and  often  practically  unavoidable,  influence  of  for- 
eign pollen  must  afterward  be  eliminated  by  means  of  well 
directed  selection  during  some  of  the  next  generations.  Such 
families  are  called  elite  races,  and  from  them  every  year  a 
branch  is  taken  for  the  production  of  the  seed  needed  for 
culture  in  the  fields  or  for  the  trade.  Accordingly  it  must 
be  multiplied  in  a  high  degree,  but  this  multiplication  must 
always  be  accompanied  by  a  continued  selection  on  the  basis 
of  external  characters  as  well  as  of  the  amount  of  sugar. 
One,  or  at  best  two,  generations  without  such  selection  are 
allowed;  but  if  a  breeder  should  multiply  his  seed  entirely 
without  it,  the  value  would  soon  sink  far  beneath  the  limit 
required  in  practice.  There  are  no  races  rich  in  sugar  which 
would  maintain  themselves  without  such  continued  help. 

Next  to  the  sugar-beets  come  a  number  of  garden  plants  in 
their  varieties  with  double  flowers.  Ordinarily,  such  a  va- 
riety has  originated  only  once,  and  is  in  this  sense  a  true  ele- 
mentary species.  But  the  breeder  chooses  his  seeds  from 
the  best  individuals  only,  in  order  to  secure  a  high  percentage 
of  beautifully  doubled  flowers  among  the  progeny.  This 
improvement  of  the  seeds,  however,  is  effective  only  for  the 
very  next  generation,  and  therefore  it  is  necessary  to  repeat 
the  selection  every  year.  Numerous  instances  could  be  given, 
and  It  seems  that  the  rule  prevails  that  the  selected  charac- 
ters are  in  a  high  degree  dependent  upon  the  conditions  of 
nourishment;  or,  in  other  words,  that  in  reality  the  selection 
is  only  the  choice  of  the  best  nourished  Individuals  as  seed- 
bearers.  Whenever  this  nourishment,  by  means  of  a  fuller 
development  of  the  seeds,  Is  effective  through  some  succes- 
sive generations,  the  races  are  called  high-bred,  and  are 
liable  to  decline  in  a  few  generations  after  the  subsidence  of 
the  selection. 

C542] 


''4 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Excellent  material  for  the  study  of  such  high-bred  races  is 
afforded  by  some  deviations  of  seedling  plants,  and  especially 
by  tricotylous  and  syncotylous  races.    I  have  cultivated  some 
of  these  races  and  found  them,  in  the  main,  to  contain  about 
fifty  per  cent,  of  deviating  individuals.     By  means  of  selec- 
tion it  was  easy  to  bring  this  standard,  in  a  few  years,  up  to 
ninety  per  cent,  and  more,  or  down  to  ten  per  cent,  and  less. 
The  selector,  however,  must  not  be  content  with  choosing 
the  most  perfectly  tricotylous  or  syncotylous  seedlings  for 
the  continuance  of  the  race.    This  external  mark  has  only  a 
very  secondary  value.     We  have  to  breed  from  those  indi- 
viduals whose  progeny  is  the  richest  in  the  desired  deviation, 
and  therefore  to  determine  this  standard  for  a  number  of 
seed-bearers,  in  order  to  choose  from  among  them  the  one 
with  the  highest  percentage  figure.     It  is  a  fact  well  worthy 
of  notice  that  such  breedings  succeed  almost  as  easily  by  in- 
sect fecundation  as  by  means  of  artificially  conducted  pure 
self-pollination    {Oenothera  hirtella,  Antirrhinum  majiis), 
the  reason  being  that  the  obnoxious  effects  of  foreign  pollen 
are  at  once  eliminated  by  the  selection  itself. 

Among  the  most  interesting  of  these  cases  are  the  middle 
races,  or  those  which  continually  oscillate  between  two  ideal 
types,  without  being  able  to  transgress  their  limits  and  to 
change  Into  one  of  those  types.  Tricotylous  races,  for  in- 
stance, oscillate  between  pure  dicotyly  and  pure  tricotyly; 
and  although  the  single  individuals  may  apparently  show 
both  these  types,  the  race  never  reaches  the  one  end,  to  the 
complete  exclusion  of  the  other.  In  such  cases  the  range  of 
variation  is  evidently  an  exceptionally  wide  one,  and  there- 
fore It  must  be  easy  for  selection  to  encroach  upon  it.  But 
we  should  always  keep  in  mind  that  the  basis  of  selection 
should  never  be  sought  In  the  externally  visible  qualities  of 
single  individuals,  but  only  In  the  average  amount  of  these 

1:543] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

qualities  among  their  progeny.  In  other  cases  the  width  of 
variation  within  the  limits  of  an  elementary  species  is  much 
smaller,  and  wherever  this  condition  prevails  it  is  often  diffi- 
cult to  reach  any  amount  of  durable  improvement  by  means 
of  selection.  Johannsen  has  studied  such  instances,  and  his 
results  may  be  considered  as  one  of  the  best  supports  of  the 
theory  of  mutation.  For  it  must  be  clear  to  every  one  that, 
when  selection  can  bring  no  improvement  at  all,  It  cannot 
even  be  supposed  to  be  conducive  to  the  production  of  new 
species  and  varieties.  In  order  to  be  wholly  sure  of  the 
purity  of  his  cultures,  Johannsen  has  limited  his  experiments 
to  such  forms  as  are  fertile  with  their  own  pollen;  but,  un- 
fortunately, this  condition  is  far  from  being  the  general  rule 
in  nature.  Moreover,  he  starts  from  a  single  self-pollinated 
Individual,  and  In  this  point  he  follows  the  principle  laid 
down  in  my  mutation  theory  and  introduced  by  Nilsson  Into 
agricultural  practice.  To  such  cultures,  derived  from  single 
selected  mother-plants,  he  gives  the  name  of  "pure  lines." 
His  method  soon  found  universal  approval,  and  by  this 
means  strongly  contributed  to  the  spread  of  the  new  Ideas. 
Within  these  pure  lines  and  in  the  examples  chosen  by  him, 
selection  does  not  provoke  any  real  changes.  High-bred 
races  do  not  occur  in  this  field,  and  so  there  is  also  no  chance 
of  w^inning  new  and  constant  races  by  means  of  them.  The 
significance  of  this  principle  seems  to  me  to  be  a  very  large 
one,  and  to  hold  good  for  far  longer  periods  than  those  of 
ordinary  experiments.  We  may  deduce  this  from  the  cul- 
tures of  Bonnier  with  the  alpine  plants.  In  this  case  natural 
selection  has  been  at  work  during  centuries,  and  In  many  in- 
stances probably  since  the  last  of  the  glaclary  periods.  But 
this  has  been  of  no  avail— at  least,  not  In  such  a  degree  that 
alpine  plants  would  have  become  purely  and  exclusively 
adapted  to  their  environment.     For,  as  is  well  known,  they 

[544] 


•■■I 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

have  not  at  all  lost  the  property  of  accommodating  them- 
selves to  the  conditions  of  a  low  country. 

Our  second  proposition  was  that  mutations  can  be  the 
source  of  new  and  constant  races  which  are  Independent  of 
selection.     In  discussing  this  point,  we  must  distinguish  be- 
tween those  cases  which  have  been  observed  only  after  the 
mutation  took  place,  and  those  which  have  been  controlled 
for  several  generations  in  advance.     The  former  we  shall 
call  empirical  and  the  latter  pedigree  mutations.    The  for- 
mer group  Includes  those  numerous  cases  of  the  origin  of 
well  observed  novelties  either  in  horticulture  or  in  the  field; 
while  the  other  class  Is  concerned  with  mutations  occurring 
in  carefully  guarded  cultures  in  an  experimental  garden, 
after  at  least  several  generations  of  the  old  type  have  been 
controlled.    In  the  case  of  empirical  mutations  we  must  base 
our  conclusions  concerning  the  forefathers  of  the  new  type  on 
the  basis  of  observations  made  In  the  moment  of  Its  discov- 
ery, and  often  this  may  give  a  very  convincing  degree  of 
probability.     In  the  other  case,  the  ancestors,  however,  are 
empirically  known.     Moreover,  It  Is  only  these  latter  cases 
which  afford  us  the  necessary  material  for  a  detailed  experi- 
mental study  of  the  conditions  under  which  the  mutation 

took  place. 

The  oldest  and  best  known  example  of  an  empirical  muta- 
tion Is  the  sudden  origin  of  Chelidonium  laciniatim.  A  com- 
pilation of  a  large  number  of  other  cases  has  been  given  in 
my  mutation  theory  and  a  critical  and  historical  review  of 
the  Instances  recorded  in  horticultural  literature  has  been 
published  by  Korshinsky.  To  these  Instances  Solms-Laubach 
has  added  his  Capsella  Heegeri,  and  Blarlnghem  his  Cap- 
sella  Vigiiieri  and  others;  and  the  list  of  cases  Is  Increasing 
almost  yearly.  We  may  therefore  state  that  the  fact  itself 
is  nov/  beyond  all  doubt.     Instances  of  pedigree  mutations 

[545  3 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


have  been  described  in  my  mutation  theory,  especially  in  the 
case  of  Linaria  znilgaris  peloria  and  of  the  double  Chrysan- 
themum segetiun,  or  corn-marigold.  Referring  for  the  de- 
scription of  these  experiments  to  the  source  I  mentioned,  I 
will  point  out  here  the  critical  and  methodological  side  of  the 
problems  involved. 

In  the  case  of  the  peloric  toad-flax,  the  aim  of  the  experi- 
ment was  to  control  experimentally  the  instances  of  this 
mutation  which  had  so  often  been  observed  in  nature;  in 
other  words,  to  watch  the  occurrence  of  such  a  change  in  a 
well  guarded  pedigree  culture.  The  observations  made  by 
different  authors  clearly  pointed  to  a  sudden  origin  without 
transitions  or  visible  preparing  steps.  No  intermediates  had 
ever  been  found.  My  aim,  however,  was  to  see  the  mutation 
taking  place.  Evidently,  peloric  flowers  owe  their  particu- 
larity, in  a  morphological  sense,  to  the  loss  or  to  the  latency 
of  the  symmetrical  structure  of  the  flower;  but  by  far  the 
greatest  number  of  instances  of  empirical  mutations  refer  to 
such  losses,  and  as  yet  there  Is  no  ground  for  supposing  that 
progressive  changes  should  behave  differently  in  this  respect. 
In  my  experiment  the  first  completely  peloric  individual — 
i.e.,  the  plant  which  had  all  of  its  flowers,  without  exception. 
In  this  condition— was  seen  in  the  fourth  generation.  It  was 
soon  followed  by  others,  and  In  a  sufliclent  number  to  show 
that  the  mutation  occurred  In  about  one  per  cent,  of  all  the 
Individuals,  and  was  repeated  In  succeeding  generations. 
Unfortunately,  these  peloric  plants  were  almost  wholly 
sterile;  and  I  contrived  only  with  difficulty  to  raise  about  a 
hundred  Individuals  from  their  seed.  These,  however,  re- 
peated the  anomaly,  although  with  a  few  exceptions,  due 
probably  to  the  extraordinarily  difficult  conditions  of  the 
artificial  self-pollination  of  these  almost  sterile  flowers.  In- 
termediate forms  did  not  occur,  neither  In  the  number  of 

1:546] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

peloric  flowers  per  plant  nor  in  that  of  the  spurs  per  flower. 
It  is  hardly  necessary  to  point  out  that  a  single  experimental 
mutation  of  this  kind  provides  a  much  deeper  insight  into  the 
phenomena  than  all  the  empirical  mutations  of  this  species 

taken  together. 

In  some  respects  the  case  of  the  double  corn-marigold  is 
different  from  this.     The  starting-point  of  this  experiment 
was  derived  from  two  empirical  theses.    One  of  these  is  the 
proposition  already  mentioned,  that  within  pure  races  selec- 
tion is  the  choice  of  only  the  best  nourished  individuals.    The 
other  is  the  increment  of  chance  of  the  occurrence  of  muta- 
tions caused  by  a  high  degree  of  nutrition.    From  a  combina- 
tion of  these  two  empirical  rules  we  may  derive  the  belief 
that  in  experiments  on  mutation  a  most  carefully  conducted 
and  luxurious  culture  is  to  be  combined  with  sharp-eyed 
selection.    Moreover,  we  may  apply  a  third  rule  which  deals 
with  the  sensitive  periods  in  the  development  of  variable 
qualities.     It  says  that  selection  chooses  especially  those  in- 
dividuals which  have  been  best  nourished  during  this  sensi- 
tive period  of  the  character  In  question,  and  from  this  we 
may  deduce  that  the  chance  of  new  mutations  lies  mainly  in 
the  direction  of  those  characters  which  we  choose  for  our 
selection,  or  of  such  as  are  most  intimately  connected  with 

them. 

The  point  of  this  discussion  should  always  be  kept  in  mind 
in  the  planning  of  new  experiments  on  mutation,  as  we  shall 
easily  see  by  applying  it  to  the  case  before  us.  It  involves 
the  principle  that  the  chance  of  winning  a  double  variety  may 
be  enhanced  by  selection  in  the  direction  of  increasing  the 
number  of  the  ray  florets  in  the  flower-heads.  This  augmen- 
tation refers  to  the  outer  range  of  florets,  while  the  doubling 
consists  in  the  change  of  the  florets  of  the  disk  into  rays. 
The  two  phenomena  are  therefore  essentially  different,  and 

[547;] 


*t      Is" 

( 


i 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

in  my  cultures  they  were  observed  to  be  not  connected  by 
transitional  or  intermediate  forms. 

By  means  of  very  careful  selection  I  succeeded  in  bringing 
the  average  number  of  ray  florets  in  the  flower-heads  from 
the  ordinary  type  of  twenty-one  (the  number  of  the  variety 
I  started  from)  up  to  thirty- four;  and  in  doing  so  the  ex- 
tremes were  seen  to  reach  even  sixty-six  rays  per  head. 
After  this  was  reached  a  change  in  the  disk  suddenly  made 
its  appearance,  and  this  in  one  of  the  seed-bearers  chosen  for 
its  extremely  high  number  of  rays.  Next  year  the  seeds  of 
this  one  plant  were  sown  separately,  and  at  once  they  gave 
the  expected  double  race  in  full  display.  It  seems  justifiable 
to  assume  that  the  numerous  double  varieties  of  species  of 
the  family  of  the  composites  have  originated  in  the  same 
way,  in  the  field  or  in  the  garden,  and  in  the  latter  case  prob- 
ably under  the  influence  of  unconscious  selection. 

After  the  same  method  I  succeeded  in  producing  a  twisted 
race  of  Dracocephaliim  moldavicum  by  means  of  the  selec- 
tion of  tricotylous  individuals.  To  this  experiment  I  was  led 
by  the  description  given  by  Morren  of  a  most  beautiful  in- 
stance of  spiral  twisting  in  another  species  of  the  same  genus. 
But  from  these  instances  we  may  not  conclude  that  such 
pedigree  experiments  will  always  give  the  desired  result. 
Thus,  for  instance,  I  have  tried  in  vain  to  win  a  double 
petalomanous  variety  of  Ranunculus  bulbosus,  although 
such  a  variety  from  time  to  time  occurs  in  the  field  in  Hol- 
land. Also,  I  did  not  succeed  in  producing  a  purely  four-  or 
five-leaved  race  of  the  red  clover;  nor  even  a  constant  seven- 
leaved  form.  But  it  is  still  possible  that  the  difficulties  in 
finding  out  the  most  favorable  methods  of  growing  these 
wild  plants  are  at  least  partly  to  be  considered  as  the  causes 
of  this  lack  of  success. 

Advance  in  the  study  of  the  question  of  mutation  seems 

1:5483 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

now  to  depend  mainly  on  the  accumulation  of  numerous 
pedigree  cultures  of  this  kind.  It  should  be  possible  to  re- 
peat the  mutations  which  are  known  to  have  occurred  in 
nature  or  in  horticulture.  In  an  experimental  way,  with  either 
the  same  or  with  allied  species.  The  conclusions  which  are 
now  derived  from  empirical  mutations  should  be  based  upon 
observations  in  the  experimental  garden.  In  working  on 
this  principle,  not  only  more  exact  proofs  may  be  reached, 
but  we  should  come  Into  possession  of  the  material  needed 
for  a  more  thorough  study  of  mutations  and  of  their  internal 
and  external  conditions.  Here  Is  the  starting-point  for  the 
long  path  which  must  still  be  explored  in  trying  to  produce 
Intentionally  chosen  novelties;  but  It  does  not  seem  at  all 
impossible  to  surmount  the  difficulties,  even  In  this  field,  and 
thereby  to  open  new  sources  of  artificial  Improvement  for 

our  crops. 

In  nature,  probably,  the  production  of  new  forms  has 
taken  place  sometimes  sporadically  and  sometimes  In  groups. 
It  Is  chiefly  a  paleontologlcal  question  which  of  these  two 
processes  has  had  the  prevailing  part  in  the  evolution  of  the 
vegetable  and  animal  kingdoms.  Have  the  main  branches  of 
the  pedigree  been  started  from  among  those  rich  groups  of 
species  and  varieties  which  constitute  the  so-called  polymor- 
phic types,  or  are  these  latter  types  only  products  of  the 
lesser  branches?  As  far  as  our  present  knowledge  goes, 
both  cases  seem  to  occur.  At  the  present  time  the  polymor- 
phous genera  and  species,  the  misty  spots  of  the  older  sys- 
tematlsts,  and  the  groups  of  explosive  changes  of  Standfuss, 
are  evidently  the  consequences  of  such  mutation  periods. 
But  most  of  them  are  already  past  that  stage,  and  no  traces 
of  mutability  have  been  preserved  in  them.  Or,  perhaps, 
this  changeability  Is  limited  to  a  few  of  the  numerous  forms, 
and  It  has  as  yet  not  been  possible  to  discern  these  among 

[549] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

in  my  cultures  they  were  observed  to  be  not  connected  by 
transitional  or  intermediate  forms. 

By  means  of  very  careful  selection  I  succeeded  in  bringing 
the  average  number  of  ray  florets  in  the  flower-heads  from 
the  ordinary  type  of  twenty-one  (the  number  of  the  variety 
I  started  from)  up  to  thirty-four;  and  in  doing  so  the  ex- 
tremes were  seen  to  reach  even  sixty-six  rays  per  head. 
After  this  was  reached  a  change  in  the  disk  suddenly  made 
its  appearance,  and  this  in  one  of  the  seed-bearers  chosen  for 
its  extremely  high  number  of  rays.  Next  year  the  seeds  of 
this  one  plant  were  sown  separately,  and  at  once  they  gave 
the  expected  double  race  in  full  display.  It  seems  justifiable 
to  assume  that  the  numerous  double  varieties  of  species  of 
the  family  of  the  composites  have  originated  in  the  same 
way,  in  the  field  or  in  the  garden,  and  in  the  latter  case  prob- 
ably under  the  influence  of  unconscious  selection. 

After  the  same  method  I  succeeded  in  producing  a  twisted 
race  of  Dracocephalum  moldavicum  by  means  of  the  selec- 
tion of  tricotylous  Individuals.  To  this  experiment  I  was  led 
by  the  description  given  by  Morren  of  a  most  beautiful  in- 
stance of  spiral  twisting  In  another  species  of  the  same  genus. 
But  from  these  instances  we  may  not  conclude  that  such 
pedigree  experiments  will  always  give  the  desired  result. 
Thus,  for  Instance,  I  have  tried  in  vain  to  win  a  double 
petalomanous  variety  of  Ranunculus  hulbosus,  although 
such  a  variety  from  time  to  time  occurs  In  the  field  in  Hol- 
land. Also,  I  did  not  succeed  in  producing  a  purely  four-  or 
five-leaved  race  of  the  red  clover;  nor  even  a  constant  seven- 
leaved  form.  But  It  Is  still  possible  that  the  diflicultles  In 
finding  out  the  most  favorable  methods  of  growing  these 
wild  plants  are  at  least  partly  to  be  considered  as  the  causes 
of  this  lack  of  success. 

Advance  In  the  study  of  the  question  of  mutation  seems 

i:S48  3 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

now  to  depend  mainly  on  the  accumulation  of  numerous 
pedigree  cultures  of  this  kind.     It  should  be  possible  to  re- 
peat the  mutations  which  are  known  to  have  occurred  in 
nature  or  in  horticulture,  in  an  experimental  way,  with  either 
the  same  or  with  allied  species.    The  conclusions  which  are 
now  derived  from  empirical  mutations  should  be  based  upon 
observations  in  the  experimental  garden.     In  working  on 
this  principle,  not  only  more  exact  proofs  may  be  reached, 
but  we  should  come  into  possession  of  the  material  needed 
for  a  more  thorough  study  of  mutations  and  of  their  internal 
and  external  conditions.     Here  Is  the  starting-point  for  the 
long  path  which  must  still  be  explored  in  trying  to  produce 
intentionally  chosen  novelties;  but  it  does  not  seem  at  all 
impossible  to  surmount  the  difiicultles,  even  In  this  field,  and 
thereby  to  open  new  sources  of  artificial  improvement  for 

our  crops. 

In  nature,  probably,  the  production  of  new  forms  has 
taken  place  sometimes  sporadically  and  sometimes  In  groups. 
It  Is  chiefly  a  paleontologlcal  question  which  of  these  two 
processes  has  had  the  prevailing  part  In  the  evolution  of  the 
vegetable  and  animal  kingdoms.  Have  the  main  branches  of 
the  pedigree  been  started  from  among  those  rich  groups  of 
species  and  varieties  which  constitute  the  so-called  polymor- 
phic types,  or  are  these  latter  types  only  products  of  the 
lesser  branches?  As  far  as  our  present  knowledge  goes, 
both  cases  seem  to  occur.  At  the  present  time  the  polymor- 
phous genera  and  species,  the  misty  spots  of  the  older  sys- 
tematlsts,  and  the  groups  of  explosive  changes  of  Standfuss, 
are  evidently  the  consequences  of  such  mutation  periods. 
But  most  of  them  are  already  past  that  stage,  and  no  traces 
of  mutability  have  been  preserved  In  them.  Or,  perhaps, 
this  changeability  is  limited  to  a  few  of  the  numerous  forms, 
and  It  has  as  yet  not  been  possible  to  discern  these  among 

C549] 


-. '  •  *=*■  *-    .  jtmiirif*.  • 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

them.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  clear  that  cases  of  the  simul- 
taneous production  of  groups  of  new  forms  provide  a  far 
more  suitable  material  for  experimental  researches  than  do 
sporadic  mutations.  The  former  type  may  include  the  most 
divergent  kinds  of  specific  changes.  It  is  on  the  ground  of 
this  conception  that  in  the  beginning  of  my  experiments  I 
sought  a  species  which  would  be  in  such  a  condition  of  muta- 
bility. I  tried  more  than  a  hundred  species,  mostly  of  wild 
plants  of  Holland;  cultivated  them  for  several  years  in  my 
garden,  and  finally  selected  one  from  among  them  which 
seemed  best  suited  for  my  purpose. 

This  one  was  the  evening  primrose  of  Lamarck,  intro- 
duced long  ago  from  America  into  Europe,  and  which  has 
run  wild  in  different  spots.  It  was  the  Oenothera  La- 
marck'iana.  The  processes  of  the  mutation  of  this  evening 
primrose  have  been  observed  of  late  by  so  many  investiga- 
tors that  no  traces  of  doubt  concerning  their  reality  any 
longer  remain.  It  is  true  that  the  whole  case  is  still  an  iso- 
lated one,  but  it  is  evident  that  a  further  search  will  sooner 
or  later  lead  to  the  discovery  of  analogous  instances.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  question  of  the  significance  of  these 
observations  as  typical  for  the  theory  of  evolution,  as  well 
as  that  concerning  the  true  nature  of  the  mutations  them- 
selves, is  a  subject  of  much  discussion.  It  is  a  struggle  for 
and  against  the  Oenotheras  and  their  evolutionary  value; 
but  this  struggle  is  concerned  with  the  mutations  themselves 
as  they  occur  in  our  experiments,  and  not— or  at  least  not 
directly— with  that  primary  condition  of  them  which  I  have 
called  the  premutations.  This  internal  tendency  to  mutation 
is  proved  by  the  fact  that  the  same  new  forms  may  arise 
yearly  from  the  main  stem  of  the  cultures,  and  often  in  a 
relatively  large  number  of  individuals.  Generation  after 
generation,  the  same  mutations  are  repeated,  and  this  re- 

1:5503 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

veals  to  us  an  hereditary  condition  of  the  germ-plasm  which 
must  have  remained  unchanged  during  all  the  twenty-five 
years  of  my  experiments  and  evidently  during  a  much  longer 
period  of  time.  In  what  way,  and  when,  these  internal 
predispositions  have  been  acquired,  the  visible  consequences 
of  which  are  the  mutations,  is  a  wholly  different  question, 
which  has  until  now  hardly  offered  itself  to  experimental 

treatment. 

This  question  of  the  premutation,  or  of  the  internal  prepa- 
ration of  the  mutability,  is  most  intimately  connected  with 
that  of  the  duration  of  the  whole  period  of  mutations.  In 
this  respect  the  first  proofs  have  referred  to  the  introduction 
of  the  Oenothera  Lamarckiana  into  Europe,  and  have  shown 
that  it  must  have  been  already  in  a  mutable  condition  at  that 
time,  or  about  sixty  years  ago.  This  conclusion  was  derived 
from  the  fact  that  the  different  strains,  issued  from  that  in- 
troduction shortly  after  it  had  taken  place,  all  showed  the 
same  phenomena  of  producing  new  forms. 

Later  observations,  and  a  better  appreciation  of  some 
older  ones  on  the  ground  of  them,  then  led  to  the  view  that 
the  mutability  must  in  this  case  be  older  than  the  species 
itself,  and  have  developed  gradually  together  with  the  spe- 
cific differentiation  within  the  group  of  the  Onagras  to  which 
O.  Lamarckiana  belongs. 

The  main  support  of  this  view  is  the  discovery  of  the  fact 
that  the  European  type  of  O.  biennis  has  the  same  property 
of  producing  dwarfs  which  is  so  prominent  in  0.  La- 
marckiana. This  has  of  late  been  observed  by  Stomps  in  his 
cultures  of  O.  biennis  cruciata,  and  it  has  occurred  also  in 
my  experimental  garden.  The  common  view  takes  this  0. 
biennis  to  be  one  of  the  forefathers  of  O.  Lamarckiana,  and 
therefore  present  indications  assume  that  the  property  of 
producing  dwarfs  has  been  inherited  by  O.  Lamarckiana 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

from  such  ancestors.  This  view  is  supported  by  that  curious 
quality  of  the  dwarfs  of  being  sensitive  in  a  high  degree  to 
the  attacks  of  some  kinds  of  bacteria  of  the  soil;  this  sensi- 
tiveness and  the  changes  in  the  structure  which  it  produces 
being  exactly  the  same  in  both  of  these  kinds  of  dwarfs.  I 
shall  have  to  refer  to  this  disease  later  on. 

Elsewhere,  also,  among  the  nearest  allies  of  the  evening 
primrose  of  Lamarck,  phenomena  of  mutability  may  be  seen 
to  occur.  Oenothera  cruciata  has  given  in  my  cultures  from 
their  very  beginning  three  types,  which  differed  from  each 
other  especially  in  the  form  of  the  flower-buds;  it  has  shown 
the  same  elementary  forms  in  the  cultures  of  MacDougal. 
This  author  studied  also  the  Oenothera  grandiflora  from 
Alabama,  and  the  origin  of  new  derivative  forms  from  it, 
and  stated  that  analogous  deviating  types  are  also  met  with 
in  its  original  station  near  Tensaw.  Moreover,  the  cul- 
tures of  Davis  have  given  evidence  of  a  wide  range  of  sub- 
ordinate forms  within  the  type  of  Oenothera  grandiflora. 
In  the  neighborhood  of  Courtney,  Missouri,  1  observed, 
among  numerous  specimens  of  the  ordinary  American  type 
of  O.  biennis,  a  deviating  individual  with  narrow  leaves. 
Analogous  mutations  have  arisen  from  the  seed  collected  in 
that  station  from  normal  plants  and  sown  in  my  garden. 
One  among  them  proved  especially  interesting  in  being  of 
lower  stature  and  of  a  more  slender  structure  than  its  very 
stout  ancestor. 

According  to  some  stray  observations,  mutability  is  not  at 
all  limited  to  these  examples,  but  occurs  in  different  allied 
species  also.  From  all  of  these  facts  we  may  safely  conclude 
that  mutability  is  a  wide-spread  phenomenon  in  the  group  of 
the  Onagras,  and  that  it  has  not  originated  with  the  origin 
of  O.  Lamarckiana.     This  weighty  conclusion  has  of  late 

1:552] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

found  an  unexpected  support  in  the  discovery  of  Stomps  that 
the  European  O.  biennis  is  liable  to  the  production  not  only 
of  dwarfs,  but  also  to  that  of  the  main  progressive  type 
among  my  mutants,  the  gigas.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  has 
not  as  yet  been  observed  to  throw  off  gigas-^X^nts  as  such. 
But  it  has  given  a  hM-gigas— Oenothera  biennis  semigigas 
—characterized  by  intermediate  marks  between  real  gigas 
and  ordinary  O.  biennis,  and  especially  by  having  in  Its  nuclei 
In  the  one  half  the  fourteen  chromosomes  of  the  former, 
and  in  the  other,  the  seven  of  the  latter.  In  other  words,  it 
has  twenty-one  chromosomes,  being  In  this  respect  wholly 
analogous  to  the  triploid  mutants  of  0.  Lamarckiana  so 
fully  and  ably  described  of  late  by  Miss  Anne  M.  Lutz.^ 

Returning  to  our  general  discussion,  It  Is  clear  that  the 
other  species  are  only  mutating  in  a  lesser  degree  than  0. 
Lamarckiana,  and  from  this  fact  we  conclude  that  the  extent 
of  this  property  must  have  increased  gradually  during  the 
phyletic  evolution  of  the  group.  Or,  in  other  words,  the 
present  mutability  of  Oenothera  Lamarckiana  is  built  up  by 
a  number  of  factors,  more  than  one  of  which  have  evidently 
originated  already  with  Its  ancestors.  It  goes  without  saying 
that  the  single  steps  of  this  process  must  themselves  be  re- 
garded, on  the  basis  of  our  theory,  as  constituting  each  of 
them  a  special  mutation. 

Bv  means  of  the  facts  which  I  have  just  described,  many 
objections  made  by  different  authors  may  easily  be  sur- 
mounted. The  question  whether  O.  Lamarckiana  has  still 
one  or  more  wild  stations  Is  no  longer  of  interest,  since  most 
of  the  other  mutating  species  are  recognized  to  be  good  wild 
types.    This  Is  especially  the  case  with  O.  grandiflora.  From 

1  Since  the  reading  of  this  address  numerous  cases  of  mutability  in  allied 
species  of  Oenothera  have  been  discovered  by  H.  H.  Bartlett.     (Note  of  1915-) 

[553!] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

my  discovery  that  O.  Laniarckiaua  produces  twin  hybrids,  O. 
lata  and  O.  velutina,  when  it  is  crossed  with  certain  of  the 
older  species,  some  authors  have  drawn  the  conclusion  of  a 
hybrid  nature.  But  Davis  has  shown  that  O.  grandiflora 
produces  the  same  twins  in  analogous  crosses;  and  in  order 
to  explain  this  fact  by  a  hybrid  condition  the  adversaries 
would  either  have  to  assume  such  a  condition  separately  for 
the  two  species,  or  suppose  a  hybrid  origin  for  their  common 
ancestors.  Both  suppositions  seem  to  lie  far  beyond  the 
realm  of  credible  scientific  hypotheses. 

Other  grounds  for  assuming  a  hybrid  nature  for  0.  La- 
marckiana  must  disappear  before  the  same  group  of  facts. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  generally  conceded  that  in  polymor- 
phous groups  of  species  some  forms  may  have  been  the  result 
of  crosses  between  others.  This  opinion  was  held  by  Lin- 
naeus, and  for  the  cereals  it  is  evidently  true,  as  is  proved  by 
the  researches  of  Nilsson  and  others.  Any  one  who  has 
studied  the  species  of  Oenothera  in  botanic  gardens  must 
have  been  struck  by  the  fact  that  they  are  very  rich  in  con- 
stant hybrids.  But  all  such  observations  are  far  from 
containing  even  a  single  trace  of  proof  in  favor  of  the  asser- 
tion that  mutations  should  be  a  consequence  of  previous 
crosses. 

Some  authors  deal  with  the  struggle  against  the  Oeno- 
theras in  a  rather  inconsiderate  way,  especially  among  those 
who  enjoy  any  argument  pleading  for  *'the  possibility  of  the 
Mutation  Theory  being  based  on  false  premises."  As  an 
example,  I  may  give  the  observation  of  Boulenger.^  He 
found  a  station  for  Oenothera  Lamarckiana  in  Bretagne, 
not  far  from  La  Garde  St.  Cast  (Cotes  du  Nord).  Here  it 
had  started  from  the  neighborhood  of  the  hotel  and  spread 

1  G.  A.  Boulenger,  in  "Journal  of  Botany,"  October,  1907. 

1:554] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

through  the  surrounding  dunes  during  several  years.  He 
found  that  it  showed  a  high  degree  of  variability,  especially 
in  the  direction  of  the  characters  of  the  European  0.  biennis^ 
a  long  line  of  transitions  and  Intermediate  steps  being  clearly 
made  out.  He  tried  to  recognize  among  them  the  types  of 
my  mutants,  but  they  proved  to  be  wholly  of  another  nature. 
Neither  did  he  succeed  In  determining  a  limit  which  would 
separate  two  groups,  the  one  belonging  to  O.  Lamarckiana 
and  the  other  to  O.  biennis.  From  these  facts  he  concluded 
that  0.  Lamarckiana  may  locally  revert  to  some  ancestral 
form  which  would  have  been  very  similar  to,  if  not  Identical 
with,  the  O.  biennis.  Every  botanist  would  of  course  have 
come  to  a  different  conclusion  and  assumed  that  0.  biennis 
had  already  been  present  on  that  spot,  being  a  common  in- 
habitant of  the  dunes,  and  that  It  had  readily  crossed  with 
the  Introduced  Lamarckiana  so  as  to  produce  quite  a  number 
of  Intermediates  of  hybrid  origin.  And  even  the  pointing 
out  of  this  possibility  would  have  destroyed  the  whole  basis 
on  which  Boulenger  thought  it  safe  to  attack  the  new  theory. 
Moreover,  It  is  rather  easy  to  prove  that  the  transitions 
of  Boulenger  must  really  have  been  such  hybrids.  In  cross- 
ing the  species  in  question,  we  come  upon  three  clearly  dis- 
tinct types,  two  of  which  have  been  already  dealt  with. 
These  are  Oenothera  hybrida  lata  and  velutina.  They  re- 
sult from  the  cross  O.  biennis  x  Lamarckiana  and  constitute 
Its  twin  hybrids.  The  former  has  broader  and  flatter,  the 
other  narrow  and  rolled  leaves;  but  aside  from  this  mark, 
they  differ  In  almost  all  their  organs  and  qualities.  The 
third  hybrid  results  from  the  reciprocal  cross,  O.  La- 
marckiana X  biennis;  its  characters  are  very  similar  to  those 
of  O.  biennis,  from  which  In  some  specimens  It  Is  often 
hardly  discernible.     To  determine  the  limits  of  these  five 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

types  in  a  mixed  group  of  plants  may  seem  a  difficult  task 
even  to  an  experienced  eye;  in  any  case,  Boulenger  failed  to 
recognize  them.  O.  biennis  is  one  of  the  more  common 
species  in  many  parts  of  the  dunes  of  Holland,  where  it  is 
known  to  have  grown  already  at  the  time  of  Linnaeus.  Not 
rarely  O.  Lamarckiana  is  sown  on  the  same  spots,  being  a 
favorite  food  for  birds;  in  such  cases  the  hybrids  will  arise 
by  the  natural  processes  of  fecundation  by  insects.  This  of 
course  also  happens  from  time  to  time  in  the  dunes  of  Hol- 
land, and  I  have  observed  it  in  an  unusually  broad  area  for 
the  Oenotheras  in  the  neighborhood  of  Zandvoort,  where  I 
studied  it  with  special  care  in  1905  and  1910.  In  the  spring 
of  1906  I  sowed  seeds  of  this  motley  group  in  my  experiment 
garden;  and  in  191 1  I  introduced  a  set  of  rosettes  and  got 
them  to  flower.  The  hybrid  types  were  easily  recognized, 
although,  on  account  of  their  transgressive  variability,  they 
seemed  to  constitute  continuous  lines  of  variation  in  many 
characters.  In  the  dunes  these  differences  are  less  evident 
than  in  the  experiment  garden,  on  account  of  the  very  differ- 
ent life  conditions.  In  groups,  however,  it  is  easy  to  ascer- 
tain the  types,  but  from  such  a  station  I  would  never  use  the 
seeds  for  any  experiments  in  mutability.  Every  single  indi- 
vidual must  always  be  regarded  with  some  doubt  as  to  the 
purity  of  its  origin. 

In  England,  also,  the  two  species  often  grow  together. 
Charles  Bailey  has  described  such  a  station  from  the  neigh- 
borhood of  St.  Anne's  on  the  Sea,  near  Liverpool.  There- 
fore I  asked  one  of  my  friends  to  visit  this  station  for  me,  and 
he  informed  me  that  in  some  of  the  valleys  0.  Lamarckiana 
was  seen  to  be  pure,  while  in  others  it  was  mixed  with  O. 
biennis  and  the  hybrids. 

In  order  to  give  a  general  rev^iew  of  the  single  mutants 

1:556: 


■11 

i 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

which  have  arisen  from  the  Oenothera  Lamarckiana^  we 
may  bring  them  into  certain  groups: 

A.  Progressive  mutations:  0.  gigas, 

B.  Retrogressive  and  degressive  mutations: 

1.  Mendel  cases:  O. /?r^'i;fj/y/f5. 

2.  Half  Mendel  cases:  O.  nanella,  O.  riibrinervis, 

3.  Not  Mendelizing  mutants:  0.  lata,  0.  scintillans, 

0.  oblong  a,  0.  lavifolia. 

Besides  these,  there  is  a  long  list  of  instances  which  have  not 
as  vet  been  studied  by  means  of  crosses,  as,  for  example, 
0.  alhida,  O.  elliptica,  O.  leptocarpa,  0.  seinilata,  O.  spathii- 
lata,  0.  siiblinearis,  0.  subovata,  and  many  others  to  which 
no  names  have  been  given  on  account  of  their  sterility  or  of 
their  excessive  feebleness.  Mutations  have  also  been  won 
by  other  investigators;  among  them  the  0.  riibricalyx  of 
Gates,  the  O.  ammophila  of  Abromeit,  and  the  0.  blanda  of 
Schouten  must  here  be  mentioned.  During  the  last  ten  years 
I  have  not  tried  to  increase  the  number  of  the  mutants;  but 
notwithstanding  this,  I  have  secured  some  interesting  nov- 
elties. The  fact  that  in  this  whole  group  only  one  species  is 
of  a  progressive  nature,  while  the  large  majority  are  either 
degressive  or  retrogressive,  has  had  stress  laid  upon  it  by 
some  authors  as  a  strong  objection,  but  it  is  just  what  we 
should  expect  on  the  ground  of  our  knowledge  of  other  poly- 
morphous groups. 

As  is  well  known,  a  certain  group  of  authors  assert  that 
all  hybrids  and  all  characters  must  necessarily  follow  the 
rules  of  Mendel.  A  criticism  of  this  evidently  one-sided 
conception  would  take  me  too  far  from  my  real  subject.  At 
the  present  moment  I  will  therefore  limit  myself  to  the  con- 
tention that  conclusions  drawn  from  immutable  plants  are 

[557] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

not  a  priori  applicable  to  those  which  are  in  a  condition  of 
mutability.  On  the  contrary,  these  latter  behave  in  many 
respects  differently,  and  it  is  only  with  them  that  I  shall  have 

to  deal  here. 

Let  us  first  look  at  the  progressive  mutations.  According 
to  our  theoretical  conceptions,  they  owe  their  origin  to  the 
appearance  of  a  new  kind  of  hereditary  unit,  or  pangens, 
which  must  have  been  split  off  by  some  one  of  the  previously 
existing  units.  This  latter  can  be  in  a  condition  of  premu- 
tability,  and  thereby  able  to  repeat  the  same  mutation  from 
time  to  time.  Whether  this  premutation  is  caused  by  its  own 
condition,  or  is  due  to  the  influence  of  neighboring  pangens, 
is  a  question  which  is  not  now  in  need  of  an  answer.  It  is 
only  a  few  progressive  mutations  that  are  of  a  phyletic 
nature— f.^.,  made  for  contributing  to  the  building  up  of  the 
pedigree  of  the  whole  system;  by  far  the  greatest  number 
must,  of  course,  be  limited  to  ordinary  specific  differences. 

In  the  foreground  of  our  discussion  of  Oenothera  gigas 
we  may  put  the  fact  that  it  possesses,  in  its  nuclei,  a  double 
number  of  chromosomes  in  comparison  with  the  species  from 
which  it  arose  and  with  almost  all  of  its  other  derivatives.  O. 
gigas  has  twenty-eight  instead  of  fourteen  in  the  vegetative 
cells,  or  fourteen  instead  of  seven  in  the  generative  elements. 
This  important  fact  was  discovered  in  1907  by  Miss  Anne 
M.  Lutz  and  corroborated  shortly  afterward  by  Gates,  and 
later  on  by  my  pupils  Geerts  and  Stomps.  It  has  brought  the 
new  species  to  the  foreground  of  cytological  interest.  Simi- 
lar duplications  of  the  set  of  chromosomes  constitute  impor- 
tant specific  marks  in  other  groups  of  plants;  and  in  no 
single  case  are  there  arguments  in  favor  of  regarding  it  as  a 
retrogressive  change. 

For  the  origin  of  a  progressive  mutant,  in  this  case  of  a 
plant  with  a  double  number  of  chromosomes,  it  is  obviously 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

necessary  that  two  mutated  sexual  cells  should  combine,  as 
was  first  pointed  out  by  Stomps.  This  condition  is  not  the 
same  for  retrogressive  and  digressive  mutations,  as  we  shall 
see  later  on.  It  is  true  that  Gates  has  expressed  a  different 
opinion  and  asserted  that  the  duplication  takes  place  only 
after  fecundation,  not  being  a  real  mutation,  but  more  in  the 
nature  of  an  accident.^  This,  however,  would  bring  the 
whole  phenomenon  into  the  class  of  acquired  characters 
which  are  now  generally  considered  as  not  hereditary.  From 
this  point  of  view,  the  conception  is  in  evident  contradiction 
to  the  facts,  since  the  gigas  has  continued  its  existence  al- 
ready during  several  generations.  In  this  connection  I  may 
point  to  the  double-nucleated  cells  of  Spirogyra  m  the  ex- 
periments of  Gerassimow,  which  retain  this  special  mark 
during  all  the  vegetative  divisions,  but  lose  it  as  soon  as 
fecundation  comes  into  play.  Moreover,  the  facts  since  dis- 
covered fully  disprove  the  view  of  Gates. 

Oenothera  gigas  has  been  seen  with  sufficient  evidence  to 
arise  only  once  in  my  cultures.  This  was  in  1895,  from  pure 
seeds  of  189 1.  It  is  only  of  this  race  that  the  chromosomes 
have  been  counted.  In  the  beginning  I  believed  that  I  saw 
it  in  other  years  also;  but  at  that  time  I  did  not  know  the 
characters  of  the  hybrid  between  it  and  Lamarckiana. 
Looking  back  to  those  cases,  it  now  seems  to  me  that  they 
were  only  half  mutants,  produced  by  the  conjugation  of  a 
mutated  sexual  cell  with  a  normal  one.  In  this  case  they 
should  have  had  twenty-one  chromosomes  in  their  nuclei,  but 
they  have  not  been  studied  in  this  respect  and  did  not  bear 
any  seed.  Such  supposed  half  mutants  have  since  been  seen 
to  arise  more  than  once,  because  it  was  now  known  that  there 
are  reasons  for  expecting  them  and  looking  for  them.  For 
one  of  these  the  chromosomes  have  been  counted  by  Stomps, 

1  R.  R.  Gates,  "Archiv  fur  Zellforschung,"  3  Bd.,  4  Heft,  1909,  p.  549- 

1:5593 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

who  found  the  expected  number  of  twenty-one.  This  obser- 
vation proves,  first,  that  the  duplication  takes  place  before 
fecundation,  and  secondly,  that  the  mutation  is  not  so  rare 
in  the  germ-cells  themselves  that  we  should  be  justified  in 
considering  it  as  an  accident.  By  means  of  a  careful  and 
extensive  study,  Miss  Lutz  has  discovered  the  same  fact.  In 
her  cultures  she  observed  ten  hnU-^i^as  mutants  arising 
from  O.  Laftiarckiana,  and  in  counting  the  number  of 
chromosomes  for  all  of  them,  she  found  it,  without  excep- 
tion, to  be  twenty-one.^ 

It  may  here  be  mentioned  that  Heribert  Nilsson  discov- 
ered in  1907,  in  Sweden,  a  mutation  of  O.  Lamarckiana  in 
gigas,^  It  gave  an  hereditary  race,  but  nothing  has  been 
published  in  regard  to  the  nuclei.  Another  important  fact  is 
the  discovery  of  Geerts,  who  met  once,  in  his  cytological 
studies  of  O.  Lamarckiana,  with  a  mother-cell  of  an  embryo 
sac  which  showed  in  its  division  twenty-eight  instead  of  four- 
teen chromosomes.  Controlling  these  observations,  I  have 
accurately  compared  my  half  mutants  with  the  artificial 
hybrids  between  0.  gigas  and  0.  Lamarckiana,  and  con- 
vinced myself  of  their  external  identity  in  all  respects. 

On  the  basis  of  these  experiences  it  is  possible  to  calculate 
the  mutation  coefl^cient  for  O.  gigas.  Most  suitable  for  this 
purpose  are  crosses  of  O.  Lamarckiana  with  such  species  as 
produce  only,  or  almost  only,  yellow,  very  weak  and  soon 
dying  hybrid  germs.  This  is  the  case  when  0.  Lamarckiana 
is  pollinated  with  the  pollen  of  O.  cruciata,  O.  muricata  or 
0.  Millersi  (nov.  sp.).  We  have  only  to  count  the  ger- 
minating seeds  and  to  cultivate  the  few  green  ones  among 
them.  As  in  Lamarckiana,  all  of  its  derivatives  give  such 
yellow  seedlings,  the  only  exception  being  that  of  O.  gigas. 

1  Miss  Anne  M.  Lutz,  "Triploid  mutants  in  Oenothera,"  Biol.  CentralbL, 
Bd.  32,  July,  1912,  p.  384.  2  -Bot.  Not.,"  1909,  pp.  97-99. 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Those  sexual  cells  which  have  been  mutated  into  this  form 
will  therefore  produce  green  seedlings,  which  it  will  then  be 
easy  to  isolate  from  the  rest.  In  growing  up  they  may  soon 
be  recognized  by  their  much  stouter  stature,  and  for  this 
reason  Stomps  has  proposed  to  call  them  Hero.  In  counting 
their  chromosomes,  he  found  them  to  be  twenty-one  in  each 
nucleus,  this  number  being  the  sum  of  seven  chromosomes 
derived  from  the  father  (0.  cruciata,  etc.)  and  of  fourteen 
derived  from  the  mutated  egg.  This,  of  course,  is  a  suffi- 
cient proof;  but  the  Hero  plants  may  afterward  be  easily 
recognized  as  such  by  their  stout  flower-buds  and  other  char- 
acteristics. 

Among  fifteen  thousand  yellow  seedlings,  forty-five  exam- 
ples of  Hero  were  counted,  giving  a  percentage  of  0.3.  If 
now  we  assume  that  the  mutations  are  as  numerous  in  the 
male  sexual  cells,  the  chance  of  their  meeting  together  and 
thereby  producing  a  full  gigas  will  obviously  be  equal  to  the 
quadrate  of  this  number,  or  0.0009,  — say  about  0.001%.  In 
my  mutation  theory  I   had  provisionally  conjectured  this 

number  to  be  o.oi%. 

The  size  of  the  cells  and  of  some  of  the  organs  of  O.  gigas 
has  increased  in  consequence  of  this  doubling  of  the  chromo- 
some number  and  In  accordance  with  the  laws  discovered  by 
Boverl  and  Marchal.  This  fact  was  first  pointed  out  by 
Gates.  This  author  extended  his  conclusions  to  all  the  differ- 
ences between  0.  gigas  and  O.  Lamarckiana;  but  this  has 
been  shown  by  Stomps  to  be  unjustifiable.  Neither  the  bien- 
nial habit,  nor  the  large  seeds  In  the  small  capsules,  nor  the 
adhesion  of  the  axillary  buds  to  the  stem  above  the  leaf 
can  be  explained  In  this  way.  The  same  is  the  case  with 
other  marks.  Here  I  might,  however,  lay  stress  on  two 
points  which  can  hardly  be  considered  as  consequences  of  a 
double  set  of  chromosomes,  but  which  have  of  old  been  con- 

n56i:i 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

sidered  as  true  specific  characteristics  as  opposed  to  mere 
varietal  marks.  I  am  thinking  of  the  strongly  diminished 
fertility  of  almost  all  the  crosses  and  hybrids  of  0.  gigas; 
and,  in  the  second  place,  of  the  fact  that  the  hybrids  are  in- 
termediates between  their  parents  and  constant  as  such  in 
their  progeny,  whenever  they  have  any. 

O.  Lamarckiana,  as  a  rule,  gives  a  normal  harvest  of 
seeds,  after  being  crossed  with  allied  species,  amounting  to 
about  0.3  cc.  per  capsule.  0.  gigas^  however,  does  not 
produce  after  the  same  crosses  more  than  o.oi  to  0.02  cc. 
of  seeds  per  capsule;  and  if  sometimes  the  harvest  is  found 
to  be  larger,  the  seeds  are,  as  a  rule,  not  capable  of  ger- 
minating, although  apparently  of  good  structure.  Often  it  is 
very  difficult  to  win  hybrid  seeds  at  all;  as,  for  instance,  in 
the  crosses  with  the  European  and  the  American  species  of 
O.  biennis  with  O.  strigosa,  with  O.  Hookeri  and  even  with 
O.  Lamarckiana  and  the  larger  number  of  its  derivatives. 
Moreover,  the  hybrids,  if  once  produced,  prove  afterward 
to  be  almost,  or  wholly,  sterile  after  self-fecundation,  and 
the  second  generation  often  embraces  only  a  very  few  in- 
dividuals. Reciprocal  hybrids  are  identical,  provided  the 
nature  of  the  other  parent  permits  it,  and  the  externally  vis- 
ible qualities  are  apparently  just  the  mean  between  the  two 
parents. 

On  the  ground  of  all  these  facts  I  take  it  for  granted  that 
O.  gigas  is  a  good  species,  arisen  in  a  progressive  way  from 
its  parent,  although  distinguished  from  this  by  only  a  single 
unit  character.  In  all  these  respects  it  behaves  differently 
from  all  the  other  mutants. 

We  now  come  to  a  discussion  of  0.  brevistvlis.  It  is  dis- 
tinguished  from  its  parent  form  mainly  by  the  partial  loss  of 
the  epigynous  condition  of  the  flowers.  Besides  this,  it  is 
the  only  one  among  all  the  derivatives  of  O.  Lamarckiana 

[562] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

that  exactly  follows  the  law  of  Mendel;  and  this  in  its  crosses 
with  the  parental  species  as  well  as  with  its  derivatives  and 
with  the  older  species.  In  some  crosses  it  may  be  seen  to 
split  into  the  twin  hybrids  lata  and  vehitina  m  the  same 
manner  as  its  ancestor,  but  then  both  of  the  twins  will  split 
In  respect  to  the  length  of  the  style,  according  to  Mendel's 

formulae. 

Of  course  the  same  splitting  must  occur  in  the  field  where 
It  grows  together  with  O.  Lamarckiana.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  it  is  not  possible  to  distinguish  the  hybrids  from  that 
species  on  first  Inspection;  but  In  bringing  numbers  of 
rosettes  of  root-leaves  to  the  garden  from  time  to  time  a 
single  plant  may  be  met  with,  the  progeny  of  which  contains 
the  short-styled  individuals  In  the  number  required  by  Men- 
del's rule.  Such  a  case  I  happened  to  find  in  my  cultures  In 
1905.  From  this  we  may  Infer  that  the  short-styled  speci- 
mens (which  almost  every  year  are  seen  to  grow  In  the  field) 
may  be  offspring  of  such  hybrids,  and  thus  their  existence  Is 
far  from  proving  the  presence  of  another  source,  such  as  a 
direct  mutation  from  0.  Lamarckiana,  Moreover,  it  seems 
that  this  mutability  is  wholly  exhausted,  since  the  mutation 
has  never  repeated  Itself  In  my  cultures. 

If  we  try  to  penetrate  Into  the  mechanism  of  the  orlgmal 
mutation  to  which  my  race  owes  its  existence,  we  find  that 
obviously  the  change  of  a  single  sexual  cell  must  be  con- 
sidered as  sufficient.  Its  fecundation  by  a  normal  cell  will 
give  rise  to  a  hybrid,  from  the  seeds  of  which  the  pure  type 
of  0.  brevistylis  will  come  into  existence.  The  hybrid  could 
not  be  recognized  In  the  field,  but  the  short-styled  Individuals 
at  once  strike  the  eye  by  wholly  different  qualities.  These 
themselves  produce  no  seed  at  all,  or  hardly  any;  but  In 
fecundating  the  surrounding  Lamarckianas  they  will  give 
rise  to  hybrids,  from  which  the  pure  type  may  once  more  be 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

produced.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  it  is  in  this  way  that 
the  O.  hrevhtylis  has  kept  its  place  in  the  field  during  the 
almost  twenty  years  of  my  observations. 

We  may  now  turn  our  attention  to  those  mutants  which 
follow  the  laws  of  Mendel  only  half-way.  They  do  not 
comply  with  these  rules  in  their  crosses  with  the  parental 
form,  nor  with  the  majority  of  its  derivatives.  But  in  those 
crosses  with  other  species  which  split  them  into  twins  the 
rule  is  that  one  of  the  twins  follows  these  formulge  while  the 
other  does  not.  To  this  group  we  may  bring  O.  nanella  and 
O.  riihrinervis. 

Before  detailing  the  results  of  the  crosses  of  these  two 
new  species,  I  must  call  your  attention  to  one  of  the  most 
curious  objections  that  have  been  made  in  the  struggle  of 
some  authors  against  the  Oenotheras.  I  mean  the  conten- 
tion that  the  dwarfs  should  not  be  a  pure  hereditary  race, 
but  only  diseased  individuals  of  the  ordinary  Lamarckiana, 
Of  course  nobody  who  ever  saw  the  two  cultures  side  by  side 
can  hold  such  an  opinion,  since  transitions  are  always  absent. 
The  dwarfs  do  not  attain  half  the  height  of  the  parental 
form,  and  are  almost  all  of  the  same  stature.  This  is  purely 
reproduced  from  seed,  without  exceptions  or  deviations. 
The  contention  I  mentioned  starts  from  a  discovery  made  by 
Zeylstra.  He  observed  a  curious  type  of  bacterium  w^ithin 
the  cells  of  the  dwarfs,  and  showed  that  the  presence  of  this 
parasite  is  the  cause  of  some  of  their  characters,  formerly 
held  for  specific  marks:  thus,  for  instance,  the  broadened 
bases  of  the  leaves,  the  brittleness  of  their  stalks,  the  fre- 
quent curvature  of  the  flower-buds,  the  failure  of  the  style 
in  some  flowers,  and  others.  But  in  opposition  to  these 
minor  points,  the  stature  of  the  dwarfs  is  neither  caused  nor 
sensibly  affected  by  the  parasite.  This  may  be  proved  in  an 
easy  way  by  cultivating  the  dwarfs  on  a  soil  rich  in  phosphate 

[564] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

of  lime  and  relatively  poor  in  nitrogenous  manure.  Under 
such  conditions  the  phenomena  of  the  disease  are  seen  to 
disappear  completely,  or  almost  so.^  The  leaves  become 
narrow  and  stalked,  the  internodes  longer,  the  brittleness  is 
lost,  the  flower-buds  are  straight,  and  the  flowers  open  in  a 
normal  way.  Often  one  or  the  other  leaf  still  shows  signs 
of  the  disease,  and  so  betrays  the  presence  of  bacteria  in  the 
cells.  But  the  main  point  is  that  the  stature  remains  the 
same;  the  dwarfs  are  still  dwarfs,  even  when  they  are  in  the 
best  of  health.  They  constitute  a  distinct  mutation,  which, 
however,  is  distinguished  from  the  parental  type  in  two 
points— viz.,  the  stature  and  the  sensitiveness  to  certain 
kinds  of  bacteria  of  the  soil.  K^  already  stated,  the  same 
holds  good  for  the  dwarfs  of  the  Oenothera  biennis. 

From  the  crosses  of  0.  nanella  and  0.  riihrinervis  with 
some  of  the  older  species  the  same  twins  arise  as  from  the 
analogous  crosses  of  O.  Lamarckiana  itself.  They  are  the 
lata  and  veliitina,  of  which  I  have  already  spoken  more  than 
once.  In  such  cases  dwarfs  are  lacking  in  the  first  genera- 
tion; and  from  this  we  should  expect  a  splitting  in  the 
second,  according  to  Mendel's  law.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
this  splitting  does  occur,  but  only  among  the  progeny  of  one 
of  the  twins.  The  other  gives  a  constant  race  without 
dwarfs.  And  since  the  twins  are  usually  produced  in  about 
equal  numbers,  it  is  one  half  of  the  progeny  which  complies 
with  Mendel's  law.  Hence  the  name  of  "half-Mendel 
hybrids."  As  a  rule,  it  is  the  velutina  which  produces  the 
dwarfs,  while  the  lata  remains  constant. ^ 

It  is  evident  that  such  splittings  cannot  occur  in  the  field 

1  "Science,"  N.  S.,  Vol.  XXXV,  No.  906,  pp.  753-754,  May,  1912. 

2  For  more  details  see  my  book,  "Gruppenweise  Artbildung,"  which  is 
soon  to  be  published.  A  modification  of  the  process  of  splitting  may  be  in- 
troduced into  these  experiments  by  the  use  of  heterogamous  species,  as,  for 
instance,  O.  muricata.  See  also  "Ber.  d.  d.  bot.  Ges.,"  Bd.  XXVI  a.  1908, 
p.  667. 

1:565] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

on  spots  where  the  Latnarckiana  is  free  from  the  admixture 
of  other  species.  In  such  cases  we  are  concerned  only  with 
the  crosses  of  the  derivatives  among  themselves  and  with 
the  parent  type.  From  these  crosses  only  the  parental  types 
are  repeated,  and,  as  a  rule,  to  the  exclusion  of  others. 
Fecundating  themselves,  they  will  prove  constant.  From 
these  experimentally  ascertained  facts  we  may  conclude  as  to 
what  must  happen  in  the  field.  A  mutation  may  keep  its 
hold  there  in  three  different  ways:  first,  by  means  of  self- 
fecundation;  secondly,  by  means  of  intercrossing  with  the 
parental  species;  and  thirdly,  by  being  produced  anew,  from 
time  to  time,  from  the  main  stock.  To  which  of  the  three 
processes  a  given  individual  owes  Its  origin  can  of  course  not 
be  seen  in  the  field;  and  so  there  is  almost  never  a  direct 
proof  of  mutations  occurring  there,  except  in  those  cases 
where  the  mutants  succumb  in  the  struggle  for  life  before 
opening  their  flowers.  And  this  is  not  at  all  rare  under  the 
adverse  conditions  of  the  field  at  Hilversum. 

The  results  of  our  crosses  show  that  in  many  cases  the 
cooperation  of  two  mutated  sexual  cells  Is  not  a  necessary 
condition  for  a  mutation  to  be  produced.  It  is  often  quite 
sufficient  that  the  mutated  cell  be  fecundated  by  an  ordinary 
one.  If  this  does  not  occur  too  rarely— as  a  rule.  In  one  half 
of  the  instances— the  mutation  wi!l  be  lost;  while  In  the  other 
half  it  will  dominate  and  develop  its  qualities  in  the  new  In- 
dividual. For  this  is  the  rule  governing  artificial  crosses. 
In  those  cases  where  It  is  lost,  the  new  individuals  will  be 
Identical  externally  with  the  ordinary  Lamarckiana;  but  It 
might  be  possible  that  such  individuals  should  prove  to  pos- 
sess a  greater  liability  for  mutating  than  do  others.  This 
point,  however,  has  not  as  yet  been  investigated.  It  might 
be  suggested  that  it  is  in  just  this  way  that  mutability  is 
maintained  In  the  field;  but  the  results  of  some  artificial 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

crosses  do  not  plead  in  favor  of  this  opinion,  since  the  La- 
marckiana individuals  produced  from  such  crosses  do  not 
show  any  increase  in  their  mutability. 

The  facts  which  we  have  now  described  could  be  used  as  a 
starting-point  for  answering  the  question  concerning  the 
nature  of  the  process  of  premutation,  or  of  the  initial 
change  which  induces  the  condition  of  mutability.  In  doing 
so  we  should  have  to  assume  that  originally  some  mutation 
had  occurred  in  a  sexual  cell  and  that  from  the  copulation  of 
this  with  a  normal  plant  no  mutant,  but  a  seemingly  ordinary 
Lamarckiana,  had  arisen.  Then  we  might  assume  that  this 
copulation  had  induced  a  mutable  condition,  which  must  be 
supposed  to  have  become  hereditary  and  to  have  given  rise 
to  an  hereditary  race.  If  such  a  change  had  taken  place  In 
the  lapse  of  time,  first  for  the  mutability  Into  O.  nanella,  it 
could  have  been  followed  by  a  similar  change  for  0.  rubri- 
nervis,  then  for  O.  lata  and  O.  scintillans,  and  so  on  for  the 
whole  range  of  known  and  as  yet  unknown  mutants. 

But  such  speculations  hardly  throw  any  light  on  the  real 
nature  of  the  processes  of  premutation,  nor  on  that  of  the 
premutated  condition,  nor  on  the  power  of  mutating  derived 
from  it.  I  have  only  mentioned  them  in  order  to  show  that 
the  hypothesis  of  Bateson  concerning  this  process  Is  as  super- 
fluous as  it  Is  erroneous.  This  author  contended  (1902) 
that  mutability  might  be  a  result  of  crosses  with  other  pre- 
existing species,  which  would  have  been  in  the  possession  of 
the  qualities  afterward  displayed  by  the  mutants.  In  opposi- 
tion to  this  supposition,  many  authors,  and  among  them 
MacDougal,  have  pointed  out  that  the  species  required  for 
the  justification  of  this  view  do  not,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  oc- 
cur. And  If  we  review  the  qualities  of  the  different  new 
types  produced  by  O.  Lamarckiana  as  mutants,  the  number 
of  which  amounts  to  more  than  twenty,  we  shall  soon  be 

1:567: 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

convinced  that  the  large  majority  of  them  are  too  weak  in 
some  respect  or  another  to  be  able  to  exist  in  nature.  They 
would  have  been  crowded  out  almost  as  soon  as  they  had 
arisen.  The  only  way  of  escaping  this  difficulty  would  be  to 
assume  that  those  hypothetical  species  had  possessed  the 
desired  qualities  only  in  a  latent  condition.  But  this  supposi- 
tion would,  in  another  respect,  be  contrary  to  the  views  of 
Bateson.  Under  these  circumstances,  I  think  it  must  be 
conceded  to  be  a  more  simple  supposition  to  leave  out  the 
conception  of  a  long  row  of  hypothetical  ancestors,  and  only 
to  assume  a  succession  of  those  premutations  the  conse- 
quences of  which  may  yearly  be  observed  in  the  mutations 
they  produce. 

But  still  one  could  be  inclined  to  consider  the  premutation 
as  a  consequence  of  the  cross  of  a  mutated  sexual  cell  with 
an  unchanged  one.  In  order  to  produce  the  desired  result, 
such  crosses  would  have  to  occur  more  than  once,  since  only 
half  of  them  may  be  expected  to  produce  mutable  La- 
marckiana  plants ;  and  the  reason  for  such  repetitions  would 
then  remain  an  obscure  point  in  the  discussion.  But,  as  al- 
ready stated,  all  these  considerations  do  not  bring  us  nearer 
to  an  understanding  of  the  phenomena.  Therefore  I  will 
limit  myself  to  the  citing  of  the  extensive  criticism  of  Blaring- 
hem  (/.  c,  pp.  173-186),  and  to  pointing  out  the  most 
important  fact  described  by  Geerts— namely,  that  the  rudi- 
mentary condition  of  the  pollen  grain,  which  plays  so  large 
a  part  in  those  hypotheses  which  ascribe  a  hybrid  nature  to 
O.  Lajnarckiana,  is  not  at  all  characteristic  of  this  species 
and  its  nearest  allies,  but  is  seen  to  occur  throughout  almost 
the  whole  family  of  the  Onagracea.  It  is  evident  from  this 
that  it  cannot  be  considered  as  proof  of  a  hybrid  nature  of 
any  species  of  that  family. 

Moreover,  I  might  once  more  lay  stress  on  the  assertion 

1:568] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

that  it  is  not  permissible  to  apply  conclusions  drawn  from 
immutable  plants  in  an  explication  of  the  conditions  of  mu- 
table ones.  Such  a  process  would  be  justifiable  only  in  case  it 
were  experimentally  shown  to  be  possible  to  change  the 
ordinary  immutable  types  into  the  rare  and  so  much  desired 
mutable  forms,  only  by  means  of  artificial  crosses.  But  as 
yet  all  experience  is  contrary  to  such  a  conclusion. 

The  last  group  we  have  to  consider  embraces  those  mu- 
tants which  in  no  respect  comply  with  the  laws  of  Mendel. 
It  may  be  sufficient  to  deal  with  them  only  very  briefly  here. 
Their  first  generation,  after  being  crossed  with  the  parental 
species,  is  as  a  rule  a  twofold  one  which  only  repeats  both  of 
the  parental  forms.  In  the  case  of  O.  Uvifolia  and  O. 
ohlonga  these  types  are  at  once  constant,  while  in  that  of 
0.  lata  and  O.  scintillans,  which  are  inconstant  types  them- 
selves, the  form  which  externally  corresponds  to  them  does 
so  in  respect  to  its  constancy  also.  Only  the  Lamarckiana 
individuals  sprung  from  these  crosses  remain  constant  when 

self-fertilized. 

It  is  clear  that  the  discussion  given  above  for  the  appear- 
ance of  individuals  deviating  in  the  field,  as  well  as  that  for 
the  process  of  premutation,  is  directly  applicable  to  this  case 
too.  It  would  be  useless  to  repeat  them.  But  the  results  of 
my  crosses  indicate  a  long  range  of  possibilities,  which  it  is 
as  yet  hardly  possible  to  combine  into  a  simple  and  clear 
scheme.  They  have  only  one  feature  in  common,  and  this  is 
the  total  absence  of  splittings  conforming  to  Mendelian  laws. 

Of  course  it  is  not  possible  to  review  here  all  the  objec- 
tions made  against  the  significance  of  the  Oenotheras  for  the 
mutation  principle.  The  theory  does  not  stand  or  fall  with 
the  validity  of  a  single  example.  It  has  been  derived  from 
general  considerations,  and  is  supported  by  a  critical  review 
of  numerous  facts  taken  from  the  most  diverse  fields  of 

D69] 


h 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

natural  science.  It  has  found  rapid  recognition  in  almost  all 
circles  of  biological  inquiry,  and  has  caused  the  principle  of 
pangenesis,  laid  down  by  Darwin,  to  become  the  starting- 
point  for  the  theory  of  heredity.^  It  is  true  that,  as  I  have 
already  pointed  out  in  the  introduction  to  my  mutation 
theory  (Vol.  I,  p.  v),  work  on  the  basis  of  this  principle  is 
far  more  easy  in  the  domain  of  hybridology  than  in  that  of 
pure  heredity.  The  development  of  the  experimental  studies 
within  the  last  ten  or  twelve  years  has  fully  justified  this  as- 
sertion. Hybridology,  or  at  least  that  part  of  this  science 
which  deals  with  Mendelism,  has  developed  to  a  bright  and 
flourishing  science,  while  only  a  few  investigators  have  de- 
voted their  work  to  the  study  of  pure  descent.  In  the  next 
few  years  the  main  interest  will  probably  turn  to  the  produc- 
tion of  new  species  within  pure  and  well-guarded  strains,^ 
partly  in  order  to  get  extensive  proofs  of  the  fact  itself,  and 
partly  to  find  their  explanation.  Along  these  lines  scientific 
research  is  gradually  approaching  its  highest  scope:  the 
artificial  production  of  new  forms  of  life — forms  planned 
beforehand. 

1  See  C.  Stuart  Gager,  "Intracellular  Pangenesis,"  English  edition  (Chicago, 
The  Open  Court),  1911. 

2  See  L.  Blaringhem,  "Transformations  brusques,"  /.  c. 


CSTo] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


Second  Lecture 
GEOGRAPHICAL  BOTANY 

THE  distribution  of  plants  on  the  earth's  surface  is 
generally  considered  as  the  present  condition  and  re- 
sult of  the  geological  evolution  of  the  plant-kingdom.  It 
may  be  considered  as  the  image  of  a  gigantic  pedigree-tree, 
seen  from  above.  The  main  branches  of  this  tree  deter- 
mine the  large  geographical  districts,  which  thus  are  shown 
to  depend  in  a  far  higher  degree  on  common  descent  than 
on  climatic  and  other  environmental  conditions.  The 
smaller  branches  intermingle,  partly  on  the  limits  of  the 
districts,  partly  on  account  of  the  wider  distribution  of  spe- 
cial groups. 

The  causes  of  the  geographical  distribution  are  thus  seen 
to  be  twofold.  One  part  of  this  whole  science  describes  the 
delimitation  of  the  regions  inhabited  by  organisms  of  vari- 
ous degrees  of  afl^nity.  The  other  is  concerned  with  the 
external  causes  which  must  have  governed  these  groupings, 
brings  them  into  relation  with  the  geological  changes  of  the 
surface  of  the  earth,  and  inquires  how  these  changes  may 
have  influenced  the  plants  themselves. 

This  latter  problem  must  be  dealt  with  chiefly  on  the 
ground  of  the  observation  of  actual  migration,  and  it  is  this 
point  which  I  wish  to  consider  in  the  present  lecture.  Al- 
phonse  de  Candolle  has  distinguished  between  migration  on 
a  broad  and  migration  on  a  small  scale.  To  this  end  he  has 
divided  the  whole  surface  of  the  earth  into  a  large  number 
of  districts,  each  of  w^hich  presents  a  flora  of  a  distinct  type, 
different  from  that  of  neighboring  districts  and  more  or  less 
clearly  uniform  throughout  its  own  domain.  In  doing  so, 
he  found  that  about  ninety  per  cent,  of  all  described  species 

D70 


A 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

are  limited  to  one  single  district,  thus  having  undergone  only 
a  small  degree  of  migration.  In  many  families  only  one 
fifth  per  cent,  of  the  species,  in  others  ten  fifteenths  per  cent., 
have  been  found  in  two  districts,  inhabiting  mainly  their 
adjoining  parts. 

From  these  facts  we  see  that  migration  on  a  larger  scale 
is  to  be  regarded  as  relatively  a  very  rare  phenomenon.  This 
impresses  us  even  more  when  we  consider  the  large  number 
of  instances  where  wide  migration  follows  the  paths  of  man 
and  is  evidently  the  effect  of  his  mingling  with  the  normal 
slow  processes  of  nature.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  just  such 
cases  of  wide  distribution  which  have  been  most  thoroughly 
observed  and  recorded,  and  in  which  the  single  facts  are 
clear  enough  for  a  definite  judgment.  It  is,  therefore,  from 
these  that  w^e  have  to  start  in  our  discussion. 

In  doing  so,  there  is  one  main  point  which  strikes  us,  in 
the  first  place.  In  almost  all  text-books  and  broad  reviews 
it  is  theoretically  assumed  that  migration  produces  specific 
changes,  that  plants  change  in  traveling,  and  that  this  is  one 
of  the  main  sources  of  specific  differences.  In  the  same  text- 
books and  reviews  the  facts  dealt  with  plead,  as  a  body,  in 
favor  of  a  contrary  conclusion,  every  single  case  of  migra- 
tion which  is  described  in  some  detail  relating  to  a  species 
which  did  not  change  in  the  process.  The  stability  of  the 
species  is  even  seen  to  be  the  main  argument  in  proving  the 
migration.  Even  Warming's  "CEcology  of  Plants,''  which 
deals  with  the  actual  migration  of  unchanging  species  in  a 
more  thorough  manner  than  perhaps  any  other  work  on  this 
subject,  and  which  contains  numerous  most  valuable  proofs 
for  the  stability  of  species,  turns  at  the  end  to  the  theoreti- 
cal conception  I  have  just  quoted,  thus  suddenly  and  unex- 
pectedly leaving  its  own  solid  basis  of  well  observed  facts. 

Avoiding  this  unqualified  conclusion,  we  must  simply  con- 

C572] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

cede  that  the  whole  domain  of  plant-migration  affords  no 
proofs  of  specific  changes  having  been  produced  by  this  pro- 
cess. Of  course,  species  have  originated  from  others,  and 
often  may  have  done  so  during  migrations,  partly  during 
those  on  a  smaller  scale,  and  partly,  but  probably  more 
rarely,  during  the  world-wide  distribution  of  some  mundane 
forms.  But  from  this  it  does  not  follow  that  they  were  pro- 
duced by  the  migration,  that  the  migration  was  the  cause, 
or  even  only  the  main  cause,  of  the  origin  of  species.  This 
origin  may  have  taken  place  wholly  independently  of  any 
migration,  and  the  effects  would  evidently  be  the  same.  In 
other  words,  the  hypothesis  of  specific  differentiation  by 
means  of  migration  is  as  superfluous  as  it  is  unsupported  by 
actual  facts. 

In  the  current  conception,  the  life-conditions  are  called 
upon  to  explain  the  beautiful  adaptations  of  plants  to  their 
environment.  We  wish  to  admire  the  harmony  which  we 
imagine  we  see  everywhere  in  nature.  The  ordinary  fitness 
of  plants  for  life  under  the  conditions  they  are  just  enjoying, 
or  rather  enduring,  must  have  its  obvious  cause,  as  well  as 
the  most  complicated  organizations  which  adapt  plants  to 
some  very  specialized  environments.  In  all  these  considera- 
tions, however,  there  is  one  great  error.  We  desire  to  ex- 
plain the  adaptations  to  the  present  life-conditions,  and 
therefore  tacitly  assume  that  the  species  have  originated 
under  their  influence.  This,  however,  as  a  rule,  is  not  so. 
Life-conditions,  climatic  as  well  as  biological,  are  far  more 
variable  than  are  the  species  themselves.  Numerous  species 
are  much  older  than  their  present  environment.  Many  of 
our  most  common  species  are  known  to  be  older  than  the 
glacial  periods,  their  fossil  remains  having  been  found  in 
the  upper  tertiary  deposits  (e.g.,  Stratiotes  aloides).  How 
can  we  know  under  what  conditions  they  have  originated? 

1:5733 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

The  common  answer  Is  that  they  are  adapted  to  their  pres- 
ent environment,  and  therefore  must  have  been  produced 
under  like  conditions.  But  if  this  argument  is  to  explain 
their  adaptation,  it  is  evidently  nothing  else  than  an  ordinary 
circiiliis  I'itiosus,  the  same  thing  being  taken  for  cause  and 
effect. 

Exactly  the  same  conclusion  holds  good  when  we  consider 
the  area  of  distribution  of  those  species  w^hich  are  not  con- 
fined to  a  single  spot  or  a  small  country.  They  live,  as  a 
rule,  under  similar  but  not  under  exactly  the  same  condi- 
tions everywhere.  The  more  we  compare  the  different  habi- 
tats of  the  same  species  in  different  countries,  the  greater 
will  appear  the  differences  in  their  environment.  First,  cli- 
mate and  soil,  then  to  a  higher  degree  the  plants  with  which 
it  has  to  compete  for  its  existence,  and  the  useful  and  ob- 
noxious animals  it  finds.  Is  the  species  considered  equally 
adapted  to  all  these  environments?  Evidently  not,  since 
under  some  it  multiplies  more  rapidly  than  under  others. 
But  how  can  we  decide  under  which  of  them  it  has  orig- 
inated? It  would  be  most  reasonable  to  assume  that  it  origi- 
nated under  those  which  are  the  most  favorable;  but  this,  as 
is  well  known,  would  be  erroneous,  since  numerous  species 
thrive  much  better  and  multiply  far  more  rapidly  in  countries 
into  which  they  have  recently  been  introduced  than  in  their 
own  original  habitat. 

Fitness  for  present  life-conditions,  therefore,  can  hardly 
be  considered  as  a  result  of  adaptation,  and  we  have  to 
recur  to  previous  hypothetical  environments  to  explain  the 
much  admired  adjustments.  All  speculations  of  this  kind 
are  merely  reduced  to  more  or  less  plausible  and  more  or  less 
poetical  considerations,  which,  however,  as  a  rule,  lack  even 
the  possibility  of  comparative  or  experimental  evidence. 
The  more  we  try  to  work  out  the  principle  of  aciaptation  in 

C574] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Its  details,  the  more  we  leave  the  field  of  actual  inquiry  and 
lose  ourselves  in  the  domain  of  pleasant  speculations. 

Plants  are  not,  as  a  rule,  most  widely  spread  under  just 
those  environmental  conditions  that  are  actually  best  fitted 
for  them.  They  simply  multiply  most  abundantly  In  those 
localities  where  they  do  not  happen  to  meet  with  other 
species  which  are  better  fitted.  One  of  the  best  Instances 
are  the  desert  plants,  which  are  so  beautifully  adapted  to 
endure  the  hardness  of  such  extreme  circumstances.  But 
they  are,  as  a  rule,  more  fitted  for  better  conditions,  like 
them  better,  and  thrive  more  abundantly  under  their  influ- 
ence. As  an  example,  I  choose  the  creosote-bush,  Larrea 
tridentata  or  Covillea  tridentata,  the  distribution  of  which 
I  carefully  studied  in  Arizona  and  California,  and  which  has 
been  so  ably  described  by  Spalding  from  observations  made 
at  the  Desert  Laboratory  of  the  Carnegie  Institution  of 
Tucson  In  Arizona.  I  quote  the  following  description  from 
an  article  by  Mr.  Spalding  in  the  ''Botanical  Gazette"  of 

1904: 

"The  creosote-bush  Is  one  of  the  most  characteristic 
species  of  the  deserts  of  Arizona  and  adjacent  States.  It 
is,  perhaps,  the  one  most  constantly  present  and  most  firmly 
established.  It  occupies  extended  areas  where  Its  removal 
would  leave  a  bare  waste,  but  at  the  same  time  shares,  on 
mesas  and  foot-hills,  a  great  variety  of  soils  and  exposure 
with  other  species  that  exhibit  far  less  capacity  of  accommo- 
dation than  Itself.  This  high  degree  of  plasticity  is  particu- 
larly noticeable  as  regards  water  supply.  On  the  low 
grounds  near  Fort  Lowell  the  creosote-bush  is  seen  to  be  far 
more  vigorous  than  on  the  dry  soil  of  the  plains.  Here  and 
there  around  Tucson  specimens  are  found  In  places  where 
they  are  well  watered,  and  correspondingly  show  a  striking 
contrast  with  the  usual  form.     Their  leaves  are  deep  green 

1:575] 


All 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

and  markedly  larger  in  size,  and  the  whole  plant  presents 
the  appearance  of  robust  health  and  remarkable  vigor,  very 
different  from  the  poor  specimens  with  narrow  pale  leaves 
and  more  or  less  defoliated  branches.  Plants  that  have 
been  well  watered  for  a  period  of  years,  moreover,  are  far 
more  fruitful  than  their  companions  standing  in  dry  ground 
near  by.  It  is  evident  that,  if  there  is  one  set  of  conditions 
to  be  assumed  as  normal  for  this  species,  it  is  exactly  not 
that  of  the  desert,  where  they  are  most  abundant,  often  to 
the  exclusion  of  all  other  kinds  of  shrubs,  but  their  one  life- 
condition  should  be  conceded  to  be,  quite  on  the  contrary,  a 
large  supply  of  water  to  their  roots,  since  only  here  they 
reach  their  full  development.  Arid  conditions  are  only  tol- 
erated, and  this,  no  doubt,  to  a  remarkable  degree,  but  the 
plant  is  dwarfed  and  suffers  in  other  ways  while  it  endures 
them." 

Spalding  assumes  that  the  creosote-bush  has  originated 
under  conditions  similar  to  those  which  are  now  most  fa- 
vorable to  it,  but  has  acquired  habits  that  enable  it  to  with- 
stand excessive  drought,  without,  however,  losing  its  capacity 
of  full  development  on  better  watered  places. 

Have  those  habits  been  acquired  after  the  species  was 
differentiated  with  all  those  marks  which  now  constitute  its 
specific  character?  Evidently  not.  They  are  simply  part  of 
It.  The  plant  is  adapted  to  two  different  sets  of  conditions, 
but  must  have  developed  these  propensities  at  the  same  time, 
and  therefore  under  the  influence  of  the  same  life-conditions. 
So  it  is  in  numerous  cases.  Even  the  cactuses,  which  are 
seemingly  so  exclusively  adapted  to  a  life  on  arid  plains, 
thrive  better  in  moist  soils  and  often  in  forests,  where  one 
would  hardly  expect  them. 

Some  authors  have  asserted  that  migrations  of  plants  are 
entirely  ineffective  without  the  adjustment  of  the  species  to 


k\ 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

the  new  habitat.  This  assertion  can  hardly  be  doubted,  but 
the  adjustment  may  depend  on  a  previously  given  property 
as  well  as  on  the  direct  influence  of  the  new  environment. 
Such  properties  may  be  well  discussed  under  the  name  of 
plasticity,  since  this  merely  refers  to  the  fact  of  easy  accom- 
modation, without  inquiring  into  its  cause.  Now  it  is  evi- 
dent that  wherever  plants  are  brought  under  conditions 
which  are  not  suited  for  them  and  for  which  they  lack  this 
power  of  accommodation,  they  simply  die  out,  after  a 
shorter  or  a  longer  lapse  of  time.  New  conditions  are,  as 
a  rule,  not  capable  of  inducing  corresponding  changes;  they 
simply  kill  the  unfit  and  allow  the  fit  to  multiply  and  to 
gain  a  new  territory.  Numerous  experiments  have  been 
made  on  this  point,  — and  often  on  a  very  large  scale,— some 
by  mere  chance,  others  with  direct  purpose.  A  few  instances 
may  suffice  to  prove  this. 

In  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  near  Paris  have  been  sown  seeds 
of  many  hundred  different  kinds.  About  a  century  ago, 
almost  yearly  all  the  superfluous  seeds  from  the  botanical 
garden  were  thrown  away  on  such  places,  where  they  seemed 
to  have  the  best  chance  of  germinating  and  thriving.  Many 
species  succeeded,  but  only  for  a  few  years;  then  they  disap- 
peared. Only  a  single  one  has  been  able  to  keep  its  hold 
under  the  new  conditions;  this  was  the  Potentilla  pennsyha- 
nica,  which  has  become  widely  spread  and  is  now  almost 
indigenous.  All  around  Montpellier,  from  1770  to  18 10, 
Nissole  and  Gouan  sowed  many  hundreds  of  exotic  species, 
always  choosing  such  as  would  seem  to  be  capable  of  adapt- 
ing themselves  to  that  region.  At  the  end  not  a  single  one 
was  left.  Targioni  Tozzetti  had  the  same  experience  around 
Florence.  Godron  made  a  careful  study  of  the  plants 
grown  from  stray  seeds  which  had  been  introduced  with  the 
wool  at  Montpellier.     Numerous  foreign  plants  appeared 

C5773 


«.   i 


! 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

every  year  around  the  places  where  the  wool  was  teased.  In 
his  'Tlorula  juvenalis"  he  enumerated  three  hundred  and 
elghty-sev^en  of  these  introduced  species.  All  of  them  have 
since  disappeared,  with  the  exception  of  Onopordon  virens 
and  Jussiaa  grandiflora,  both  of  which  have  become  very 
common  and  troublesome  weeds.  In  the  same  way,  Galin- 
soga  parviflora  and  Corhpermiim  Marshalli  were  acci- 
dentally introduced  into  Holland  about  a  century  ago,  and 
they  have  multiplied  in  great  numbers  without,  however, 
gaining  more  than  a  local  habitat. 

In  all  such  cases,  and  numerous  others  also,  a  few  species 
have  proved  well  fitted  to  their  new  conditions ;  they  multiply 
without  changing  themselves,  while  the  great  majority  dis- 
appear on  account  of  the  impossibility  of  complying  with  the 
new  environment.  Of  adaptations—/.^.,  of  changes  brought 
about  by  the  new  influences— never  a  trace  has  been  ob- 
served. 

From  these  causes  we  now  return  to  those  instances  of 
high  plasticity  which  enable  species  to  live  under  two  or 
more  sets  of  different  conditions.  Polygonum  amphibium 
may  be  adduced  in  the  first  place.  It  is  adapted  to  life  in 
ponds,  producing  long-stalked,  glabrous,  shiny,  floating 
leaves  and  long  flexible  stems.  It  is  found  also  on  land,  with 
erect  stems  and  hairy  leaves  of  a  more  pale  green  and  almost 
unstalked.  The  same  plant  may,  as  shown  in  the  experi- 
ments of  Massart,  when  it  grows  just  on  the  edge  of  the 
water,  make  both  kinds  of  stems.  It  thus  affords  a  most 
beautiful  instance  of  double  adaptation.  According  to  the 
experiments  of  Bonnier,  numerous  species  of  the  high  alpine 
regions  comply  with  the  same  principle.  Cutting  the  rhi- 
zomes in  two  halves  and  planting  the  one  in  the  plain  and 
the  other  on  the  mountain,  he  saw  one  half  retaining  its 
alpine  character,  while  the  other  half  adapted  itselt  to  the 


A  \ 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

lowland  conditions,  losing  its  short  stems  and  dense  foliage 
and  all  those  smaller  marks  which  constitute  the  typical  char- 
acter of  the  alpine  flora  along  the  limits  of  the  eternal  snow 

regions. 

Analogous  phenomena  have  been  observed  by  Holter- 
mann  in  Ceylon.  He  directed  his  attention  especially  upon 
those  tissues  which  have  the  function  of  storing  great  quan- 
tities of  water  and  which  thereby  enable  the  plants  to  keep 
fresh  during  the  long  periods  of  drought  in  summer.  In  the 
leaves  of  Cyanotis  Zeylanica,  for  example,  the  water-tissue 
covers  about  four  fifths  of  the  whole  volume  of  the  leaf,  but 
only  so  where  the  species  grows  on  dry  soil.  Specimens  col- 
lected in  moister  conditions  have  a  water-tissue  which 
reaches  hardly  one  tenth  of  the  whole  volume.  Holtermann 
showed  that  this  is  only  a  question  of  a  high  degree  of  plas- 
ticity, since  by  transplanting  a  specimen  from  one  place  to 
another,  the  new  leaves  which  are  produced  show  at  once 
the  influence  of  the  new  environment.  So  it  is  in  other  cases 
—  for  instance,  with  Rhizophora  miicronata,  Lumnitzera 
racemosa,  Bruguiera  gymnorhiza,  and  others. 

It  is  clear  that  we  may  call  all  these  changes  adaptations 
to  new  conditions.  But  then  we  must  concede  that  these 
adaptations  depend  upon  characters  which  were  inherent  in 
the  species  before  it  arrived  in  the  new  environment.  The 
characters  themselves  are  not  the  effect  of  the  external  influ- 
ences considered;  it  is  only  that  the  opportunity  of  dis- 
playing properties  which  were  previously  latent  has  been 
afforded  by  the  new  habitat. 

It  is  quite  a  common  experience  that  many  plants,  when 
introduced  into  a  new  country,  may  at  once  prove  to  be 
better  fitted  for  it  than  are  its  own  inhabitants.  A  rapid 
multiplication  is  the  consequence,  and  this  is  especially  well 
known  in  those  cases  where  the  immigrants  not  only  conquer 

[579] 


i 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

the  indigenous  forms,  but  do  this  to  such  a  degree  that  large 
parts  of  the  original  flora  are  threatened  with  total  extirpa- 
tion.   Here  it  is  evident  that  the  conditions  in  the  new  coun- 
try cannot  afford  a  basis  for  the  explanation  of  the  proper- 
ties of  the  immigrants;  on  the  contrary,  the  given  characters 
of  these  species  have  to  be  considered  as  the  causes  of  their 
rapid  multiplication.     If,  however,  this  is  so  in  cases  where 
the  introduction  is  historically  known,  how  can  we  decide 
whether  the  same  thing  does  not  prevail  in  other  instances, 
where  the  introduction  is  simply  older  than  our  historical 
records?    At  all  events,  the  comparison  of  such  cases  would 
warn  us  against  attributing  locally  observed  instances  of  fit- 
ness to  given  life-conditions  on  the  ground  of  the  assumption 
of  the  direct  influence  of  the  latter.    Even  the  most  beautiful 
and  most  specialized  cases  of  mutual  adaptation  between 
plants  and  their  environment  do  not  escape  this  objection. 
Insectivorous  plants  may  have  originated  in  localities  where 
they   gained    an   essential   part   of   their   food   by   catching 
insects,  but  they  may  as  well  have  acquired  this  propensity 
where  it  w^as  perhaps  wholly  useless  to  them. 

From  this  point  of  view,  it  may  be  interesting  to  recall 
some  of  the  well  known  instances  of  modern  migration 
among  plants.  The  water-pest,  Elodea  canadensis,  was  in- 
troduced from  America  into  Europe  about  seventy  years 
ago,  and  has  so  rapidly  multiplied,  in  almost  all  countries, 
as  to  deserve  well  its  name  of  pest.  It  is,  however,  only 
female,  no  male  individuals  having  been  introduced.  It  is 
thereby  clearly  incapable  of  changing  into  a  new  form,  no 
bud-variation  having  ever  been  observed;  and  although  it 
has  adapted  itself  perfectly  well  to  all  its  new  conditions,  as 
the  phrase  goes,  this  adaptation  has  proceeded  without  the 
least  internal  change  of  its  characters.  The  same  thing 
occurs  with  Acorns  Calamus,  one  of  the  most  common  plants 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

throughout  a  large  part  of  Europe,  covering  the  edges  of 
miles  of  canals  and  pools.  It  was  introduced  from  Asia 
some  centuries  ago,  but  never  produces  any  good  seed  with 
us.    It  multiplies  only  by  its  rhizomes,  and  evidently  without 

any  specific  change. 

Graebner,  in  his  admirable  text-book  of  general  plant- 
geography,  gives  a  detailed  discussion  of  plant-migrations. 
He  distinguishes  between  three  main  groups  of  naturalized 
species,  which  he  calls  the  casuals,  the  aliens,  and  the  deni- 
zens.    The  first  group  embraces  such  cases  as  seeds  and 
other  vegetable  organs  introduced  as  weeds  by  means  of 
trade.    Seaports  and  railroads  afford  the  common  instances. 
An  instance  of  the  dispersion  of  weeds  by  the  wool-trade  of 
Montpellier  has  already  been  given,  and  numerous  species 
are  known  to  travel  along  railroads,  in  Europe  as  well  as  in 
America.     One  of  the  most  dreadful  examples  is  perhaps 
the  Russian  thistle,  which  in  its  dispersion  all  over  the 
Dakotas  and  the  adjoining  States  has  clearly  been  shown 
to  follow  this  way  and  to  enter  different  parts  of  the  country 
mainly  by  starting  from  the  railroad  stations.    In  these  rare 
cases  the  casuals  become  aliens,  but  by  far  the  larger  part 
of  them  disappear  after  some  time.    Arnarantiis  retroflexus 
was  introduced  accidentally  from  America  into  the  country 
around  Venice  in   1733.     Impatiens  parviflora  escaped  in 
Geneva  from  the  botanical  garden  about  1830,  and  after- 
ward from  sundry  other  gardens.     Both  of  them  are  now 
common  weeds  in  many  places,  and  it  would  be  impossible 
to  distinguish  them  from  the  original  flora,  should  their  in- 
troduction have  escaped  observation.     Erigeron  canadense 
was  sent  from  Canada  to  the  botanical  garden  of  Paris 
about  a  century  before  the  time  of  Linnaeus,  who  knew  it  as 
an  extremely  common  weed  throughout  England,  France, 
Italy,  Holland,  and  Germany.     Since  his  time  it  has  spread 

[581] 


;^( 


I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

far  into  Russia.     Numerous  European  weeds  have  been  in- 
troduced  by  ships  into  St.  Helena,  and  they  have  almost 
exterminated  its  original   flora.     Their  multiplication  has 
been  astonishingly  rapid.     The  Chenopodium  ambrosioides 
was  sown  on  that  isle  by  Burchell  in  1845,  and  became  a 
common  weed  all  over  the  whole  island  within  only  four 
years.     St.  Helena  had,  altogether,  only  fifty-two  indige- 
nous  species,  while  seven  hundred  and  forty-six  have  been 
introduced    by    ships,    most    of   which   have    since    widely 
spread.      Analogous    facts    are   given   by   numerous   other 
isolated  oceanic  islands,  showing  that,  as  a  rule,  the  flora  of 
such  a  region  does  not  consist  of  the  plants  best  suited  for  it. 
In  hardly  any  case  have  the  life-conditions  of  such  isolated 
places  seemed  to  have  been  able  to  lead  the  indigenous 
species  to  such  a  degree  of  adaptation  that  they  could  with- 
stand the  invasion  of  forms  which  had  originated  under  dif- 
ferent conditions. 

In  Norway  Dryas  octopetala  has  spread  in  many  places. 
Matricaria  discoidea  is  still  rapidly  gaining  ground  in  this 
country  as  well  as  in  many  others,  even  in  California.    The 
Napa-thistle    {Centaur ea  Melitensis)    is   one   of  the  most 
common  weeds  along  the  roads  in  California,  having  only 
recently  been  introduced  from  Europe.     Parish  has  studied 
the  invasion  of  thirty  or  more  foreign  species  into  the  south- 
ern parts  of  California  and  described  how  the  native  flora 
slowly  but  continually  retreats  before  them.    Warming  accu- 
rately studied  the  flora  of  the  Faroe  off  the  coast  of  England. 
They  constitute  an  isolated  group  of  oceanic  islands  and 
have  a  very  young  flora,  since  they  must  have  been  covered 
wholly  by  the  ice  at  the  time  of  the  glacial  period.     All  of 
its  species  must,  therefore,  have  been  introduced  in  recent 
times.     If  we  except  the  very  polymorphous  genus  Hiera- 
ciiim,  there  are  no  endemic  species.    The  whole  flora  consists 


I 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

of  two  hundred  and  eighty-five  forms,  most  of  which  have 
been  introduced  from  England,  and  partly,  no  doubt,  by  man. 
This  latter  group  is  estimated  by  Warming  to  embrace 
about  forty  per  cent,  of  all  the  forms,  the  remaining  forms 
having  evidently  been  introduced  previously  by  the  winds 
or  by  sea  currents.  Such  a  new  flora  must,  evidently,  con- 
stitute an  absolutely  new  biological  environment  for  the  first 
immigrants  as  well  as  for  the  newcomers.  Notwithstanding 
this,  and  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  the  length  of  time 
from  the  glacial  period  till  the  occupation  of  the  island  by 
man  would  seem  to  be  quite  suflficlent  for  the  production  of 
new  species,  no  such  events  have  occurred,  with  the  only 
exception  already  quoted.  It  is  diflicult  to  conceive  of 
clearer  opportunities  for  the  origin  of  species  than  those 
afforded  on  the  Faroe.  If  new  environments  should  ever  be 
able  to  determine  such  changes,  they  must  surely  have  done 
so  here.  If  not,  it  is  hardly  allowable  to  assume  a  direct 
Influence  of  the  environment  upon  the  degree  of  adaptation 
of  any  given  form.  Warming  gives  further  proof  for  the 
same  conclusion  where  he  deals  with  analogous  facts  In  his 
''CEcology  of  Plants."  He  says  (p.  364)  :  "Numerous  facts 
have  proved  that  many  species  are  still  migrating  and  have 
not  yet  attained  the  distribution  that  soil,  climate,  their 
means  of  traveling  and  other  relations  would  permit.  Such 
species  are  able  to  emerge  triumphant  from  struggles  In 
many  communities,  without  requiring  the  aid  of  any  change 
in  the  Inanimate  surroundings.  Senecio  vernalis,  In  northern 
Germany,  has  spread  toward  the  west  as  a  pestilent  weed, 
within  a  period  of  scarcely  more  than  twice  a  man's  life. 
Several  hundreds  of  foreign  species  have  reached  New  Zea- 
land, where  some  of  them  defeat  the  native  vegetation." 
And  in  conclusion  from  these  and  many  similar  broad  groups 
of  facts,  he  adds:  "It  Is  essential  that  climate  and  soil  shall 


A 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

suit  Immigrant  plants;  otherwise  they  fall  to  gain  an  en- 
trance." It  looks  to  me  like  a  simple  translation  of  this 
sentence  Into  the  terms  of  another  theory,  when  we  say 
climate  and  soil  and  the  whole  physical  and  biological  cir- 
cumstances of  a  country  allow^  of  the  entrance  of  Immigrants 
only  on  the  distinct  condition  of  a  previously  acquired  fitness 
for  the  new  environments;  otherwise,  they  fall  to  gain  such 
an  entrance.     No  direct  Influence  or  adaptation  Is  possible. 

Salicornia  herhacea  Is  perhaps  one  of  the  best  Instances. 
It  Is  common  In  Europe  all  along  the  coast,  and  It  occurs  In 
millions  of  Individuals  on  the  shallow  shores  of  large  parts 
of  Holland.  It  has  been  Introduced  Into  America,  where  It 
has  traveled  from  lake  to  lake,  wherever  the  saltness  of  the 
water  afforded  It  a  natural  habitat.  In  this  way  It  has 
reached  the  shores  of  even  the  Great  Salt  Lake  In  Utah, 
where  It  grows  In  no  less  quantities  than  In  Holland,  al- 
though the  climate  Is  wholly  different  and  the  degree  of  salt- 
ness (about  twenty  per  cent.  NaCl)  Is  many  times  higher 
than  that  of  the  sea.  Here  it  has  evidently  met  with  quite 
new  conditions  of  life;  It  has  proved  fit  for  them,  and  no 
difference  between  the  form  growing  in  Utah  and  that  of 
Holland  has  as  yet  been  observed. 

Such  species,  even  when  they  have  originally  been  intro- 
duced by  man  Into  their  new  country,  evidently  now  have 
become  independent  of  his  help.  They  constitute  the  group 
described  by  Graebner  as  that  of  the  aliens.  Numerous  In- 
stances could  be  given,  as  it  is  perhaps  the  richest  group 
among  all  the  cases  of  migration.  Colonists  and  denizens 
also  owe  their  dispersion  to  man,  the  former  occurring  only 
along  the  roads,  in  the  cultivated  fields,  or  in  waste  places 
In  their  neighborhood,  and  in  many  cases  depending  for  their 
continuous  occurrence  In  such  places  on  often  renewed  in- 
troduction.    Such,  for  Instance,  are  many  of  the  most  com- 

[584] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

men  weeds  in  our  gr^Lin-fidds— Centaur e a  Cyanus,  Aqui- 
legia  vulgaris ,  Datura  Stramonium,  etc.  Denizens  are  those 
species  which  have  left  these  lines  and  mingled  with  the 
native  flora  to  such  a  degree  that  their  foreign  origin  be- 
comes concealed,  or  Is  even  in  some  cases  doubtful.  Arte- 
misia absinthium,  Aristolochia  Clematitis,  and  Finca  minor 
afford  instances  of  this  condition. 

The  peopling  of  new  soil  Is  an  Interesting  instance  of  mi- 
gration. In  Holland  it  Is  frequently  observed  when  lakes 
are  drained  and  changed  into  polders.  Aster  Tripolium  and 
Cineraria  palustris  are  among  the  first  immigrants,  occupy- 
ing the  area  in  millions  of  individuals,  the  first  preferring 
a  salty,  the  second  a  fresh-water  region.  Other  species  fol- 
low more  slowly,  but  soon  conquer  the  first,  of  which  the 
Aster  ordinarily  keeps  its  hold,  while  the  Cineraria  is  often 
crowded  out  very  soon.  In  our  dunes  the  first  Immigrants 
—among  which  the  Erigeron  canadense  Is  one  of  the  most 
frequent— may  thrive  through  centuries.  But,  in  the  end, 
when  the  calcareous  parts  of  the  sand  become  washed  out 
by  the  rains,  most  of  those  species,  requiring  a  certain 
amount  of  lime,  will  disappear  and  be  succeeded  by  ordinary 
heath,  Calluna  vulgaris,  and  the  whole  association  of  species 
which  prefer  soils  that  are  poor  in  chalk.  Warming  cites 
the  description,  given  by  Beck,  of  the  kinds  of  vegetation 
that  succeed  one  another  on  the  sand-banks  cast  up  by  high 
water  on  the  Danube.  First,  on  the  bare  moist  sand  are 
found  some  herbs.  Including  species  of  Polygonum  and 
Chenopodium,  among  which  seeds  of  Salix,  Populus,  Alnus, 
and  Myricaria  germanica  may  germinate.  The  next  colo- 
nists are  a  number  of  other  herbs,  belonging  particularly  to 
species  with  long  creeping  rhizomes;  some  settle  upon 
moister  spots,  others  upon  drier,  and  more  or  less  rapidly 
Increase  the  vegetation  of  the  bank.     Then  the  herbs  be- 

ns853 


i    > 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

come  suppressed  by  the  shade  of  the  trees;  but  in  the 
end  the  struggle  among  the  willows,  alders,  and  poplars 
themselves  ends  in  favor  of  the  latter,  to  which  then  elms 
are  seen  to  add  themselves.  All  over  the  world  struggles 
of  this  kind  may  be  seen.  Some  species  are  crowded  out, 
others  conquer  lesser  or  larger  parts  of  the  soil;  but  none 
of  them  is  ever  seen  to  become  changed  in  the  process.  It 
is  true  that,  in  many  cases,  the  duration  of  the  struggle  is 
too  short  to  allow  of  any  chance  of  specific  adaptation.  But 
then  there  are  many  other  cases,  as,  for  instance,  our  Dutch 
dunes,  where  the  process  has  taken  at  least  six  or  seven 
centuries,  and  w^here  nothing  has  ever  been  seen  in  the  way 
of  direct  influence  or  slow  adjustment  to  the  changing  con- 
ditions. 

The  first  Invaders  are  often  seen  to  be  supplanted  by 
others.  The  first  are  those  which  occur  In  the  vicinity  and 
possess  the  best  means  of  dispersal  by  wind  or  by  birds. 
Their  number  may  steadily  increase,  but,  sooner  or  later, 
other  forms  may  come  in— perhaps  from  distant  regions— 
which  prove  to  be  better  fitted  for  the  conditions  of  that 
locality.  Then  the  struggle  for  life  becomes  more  intensive, 
until  gradually  an  increasing  number  will  be  crowded  out 
and  the  flora  will  become  poorer  and  more  uniform.  As  a 
rule,  the  more  highly  specialized  forms  will  then  prove  to 
be  the  least  fit,  while  coarser  types,  with  less  obvious  adap- 
tations, will  comply  more  easily  with  the  prevailing  condi- 
tions and  so  become  the  ultimate  conquerors  of  the  soil. 

Harshberger  describes  the  flora  of  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
giving  lists  of  their  plants  grouped  according  to  their  prob- 
able origins.  The  whole  flora  is  a  young  one:  some  species 
Invade  the  region  from  the  east,  others  from  the  west,  but 
all  of  them  without  showing  visible  changes  in  the  way  of 
adaptations  to  their  new  environment.     There  are,  how- 

[586] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

ever,  many  plants  restricted  to  this  region  which.  In  all 
probability,  have  been  differentiated  since  the  close  of  the 
glacial  period,  the  territory  having  been  glaciated  at  that 
time.  How  this  differentiation  was  brought  about,  and  under 
what  conditions,  it  is  of  course  impossible  to  tell;  but  the 
assumption  that  the  life-conditions  were  then  the  same  as 
they  are  now  seems  to  me  the  least  probable  one  could 
propose. 

I  conclude  this  enumeration  of  well  known  cases  of  migra- 
tion without  visible  changes  by  alluding  to  the  case  of  water- 
plants.  As  a  rule,  they  have  a  wide  dispersion- far  wider 
ordinarily  than  their  congeners  that  live  on  the  land.  The 
most  curious  Instance  is,  perhaps,  the  carnivorous  species 
Aldrovandia  vesiculosa^  which  Is  highly  adapted  to  the 
catching  of  Insects,  small  crustaceans,  and  other  small  swim- 
ming animals  of  our  pools  and  ponds  by  means  of  Its  leaves. 
It  seems  to  show  no  relation  whatever  to  its  environment  In 
these  structures,  being  In  no  degree  better  fitted  for  life  In 
water  than  all  the  other  species  with  which  It  is  found  grow- 
ing together  and  which  lack  this  presumed  weapon  In  the 
struggle  for  life.  Its  area  necessarily  consists  of  isolated 
spots,  such  as  lakes,  moors,  and  pools.  Notwithstanding 
the  great  difficulties  of  transportation,  which  w^ould  seem 
to  be  in  the  way  of  Its  distribution.  It  is  found  all  over  Eu- 
rope, in  Germany,  France,  Italy,  Hungary,  and  Russia. 
Moreover,  it  is  observed  in  eastern  Asia,  the  Indian  Archi- 
pelago, In  Australia,  and  even  In  the  central  parts  of  Africa, 
almost  every  single  locality  lying  at  enormous  distances  from 
all  the  others.  It  Is  exposed  to  great  differences  of  climate 
and  soil,  and  especially  In  its  biological  surroundings  and 
competitors.  But  all  these  Influences  have  not  been  able  to 
change  It  in  the  least.  Everywhere  it  Is  simply  the  same 
highly  specialized  form.  • 


i: 


i 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

In  all  these  cases  we  clearly  see  that  the  capacity  of  ac- 
commodation to  a  new  environment  does  not  depend  upon 
the  possibility  of  assuming  new  characters  under  the  influ- 
ence of  the  new  factors,  but  solely  on  the  degree  of  plasticity. 
This,  howev^er,  is  a  latent  quality  which  was  already  inher- 
ent in  the  species  long  before  it  was  brought  under  the  new 
influences,  and  which,  therefore,  must  have  been  acquired 
independently  of  them.  Although  it  may  be  regarded  as  a 
quality  by  itself,  it  has  evidently  nothing  to  do  with  the  ques- 
tion of  the  production  of  new  characters  under  the  direct 
influence  of  environment,— I  mean,  with  the  origination  of 
such  qualities,  in  response  to  the  requirements  of  this  en- 
vironment, as  would  fit  the  plants  under  consideration  to  it. 
How  the  plasticity  has  been  brought  about  is  another  ques- 
tion, which  has  to  be  considered  by  itself,  without  mixing  it 
up  with  that  of  its  usefulness  long  after  its  origination. 

Migration  and  rapid  dispersion  without  changes  of  spe- 
cific characters  are  perhaps  most  clearly  illustrated  by 
those  fungus-pests  which  have  come  either  from  America  to 
Europe,  or  from  Europe  to  the  new  continent.  Many 
dreaded  diseases  of  cultivated  plants  afford  instances. 
Among  them,  those  of  the  potato  and  the  grape-vine,  Phy- 
tophthora  infestans  and  Oidium  Tuckeri.  Among  insects, 
the  Phylloxera  is  perhaps  the  best  known  instance,  while  the 
Colorado  beetle  does  not  seem  to  be  well  suited  for  Euro- 
pean orchards.  Few  migrating  plants  have  been  so  closely 
followed  in  their  movements  and  so  thoroughly  studied  in 
all  their  physiological  and  morphological  properties,  in 
order  to  find  the  means  of  successfully  combating  them,  as 
these  pests.  Any  slight  change  in  their  specific  characters, 
any  production  of  new  races  especially  suited  for  the  new 
conditions,  would  surely  have  been  discovered  and  widely 
studied  and  described.     Nothing  of  the  kind  has  occurred, 

n5883 


■,  I 


W^^-m  «»n»«-Ji»r-ir».«.   mnm   -m 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

however,  and  no  real  adaptation  has  taken  place.  The  rapid 
spreading  has  been  the  result  of  previously  existing  charac- 
ters  but  it  has  not  had  any  relation  to  the  origination  of 

new  forms. 

As  an  instance  of  the  rapid  spreading  of  a  fungus-disease 
I  choose  the  rust  of  our  Malva  and  the  other  genera  of  the 
same  family,  as  studied  by  Eriksson  {Puccinia  Malva- 
ceariim).  It  came  from  South  America  and  reached  Spain 
in  1869,  this  being  the  first  invasion  of  Europe.  Three 
years  later  it  was  observed  near  St.  Armand,  in  a  northern 
department  of  France,  and  in  the  next  year— 1873— it  was 
found  spreading  all  over  that  country,  in  England,  and  also 
in  Germany.  In  the  next  two  or  three  years  the  number  of 
its  stations  rapidly  increased,  and  it  migrated  to  Switzerland, 
Austria,  Hungary,  Finland,  and  Greece  (i 876-1 890). 
Australia  was  among  the  first  countries  to  be  infected;  Africa 
and  North  America,  among  the  last  (1885).  Wherever  it 
has  penetrated,  it  has  soon  become  a  dreaded  pest,  impeding 
the  culture  of  malvaceous  plants  in  a  most  troublesome 
degree. 

Once  more,  these  instances  show  that  migrations  are  not, 
as  a  rule,  accompanied  by  specific  changes.  Such  may  occur 
during  the  traveling-period  of  a  species,  quite  as  well  as 
during  any  other  times  of  its  existence;  but  then  there  is  no 
single  reason  to  consider  them  as  the  consequence  of  the 
changed  conditions  of  life.  The  same  conclusion  will  be 
forced  upon  us,  now,  as  we  come  to  the  consideration  of 
those  cases  where  the  climate  and  other  environmental  con- 
ditions must  have  changed  without,  or  almost  without,  corre- 
sponding migrations. 

Battandier  describes  the  probable  origin  of  the  present 
flora  of  the  Sahara  desert.  Originally,  this  region  must 
have  had  an  ordinary  degree  of  rainfall  and  moisture,  and 

[589] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

constituted  as  fertile  a  country  as  any  of  the  surrounding 
parts  of  northern  Africa.  Then,  for  some  reason  or  other 
the  rainfall  must  slowly  have  diminished,  taking  centuries, 
or  even  the  larger  part  of  the  quaternary  period,  to  reach 
the  conditions  which  now  prevail.  The  consequent  changes 
in  this  flora  must  have  been  correspondingly  slow,  and  must 
have  consisted  mainly  in  the  disappearing  of  the  larger  part 
of  the  species:  first  of  those  which  were  dependent  on  the 
higher  degree  of  moisture;  then  of  others,  until  at  the  pres- 
ent time  only  the  most  drought-resisting  forms  are  spared. 

Battandler  sees  no  reason  for  assuming  that  any  specific 
changes  were  brought  about  by  this  great  process;  on  the 
contrary,  he  points  out  the  fact  that  a  large  number  of  the 
species  of  this  arid  region  are  what  we  call  monotypic 
genera,  each  genus  consisting  of  a  single  species.  If  there 
had  been  any  degree  of  adaptation  during  this  whole  period 
of  increasing  dryness,  new  species  would  have  been  pro- 
duced, most  likely,  from  those  forms  which,  by  their  own 
inherent  capacities,  would  be  the  very  last  to  be  threatened 
with  extermination.  Those  genera  would,  therefore,  have 
produced  quite  a  number  of  smaller  or  even  of  larger  species, 
adapting  themselves  more  and  more  to  the  changing  condi- 
tions and  stocking  the  desert,  In  the  same  way  as  other  des- 
erts have  been  stocked,  from  adjoining  countries.  They 
have  not  done  so,  and  from  this  we  may  conclude  that  the 
single  species,  of  which  each  of  the  genera  consists,  have  not 
undergone  any  change  in  the  direction  of  drought  resistance, 
but  have  simply  been  those  which  happened  to  be  the  best 
fitted  for  the  life  In  the  desert.  A  thick  epidermis,  a  small 
display  of  leaves,  long  and  deep  roots,  were  the  main  quali- 
fications for  this  choice.  All  species  w-hlch  were  not  so 
endowed  must  have  disappeared;  for  only  those  which  en- 
joyed these  properties  could  resist,  in  the  long  run. 

[S90] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

The  swamp  cypress,  Taxodium  distichiim,  Cercis  sUiquas- 
trinn  and  many  others,  have  been  found  fossil  in  the  upper 
tert'ary  deposits.  So  far  as  their  remains  admit  of  a  con- 
clusion, they  have  not  undergone  any  specific  change  during 
this  long  period  of  their  existence.  Climatic  conditions  have, 
however,  very  much  changed,  including,  perhaps,  the  great- 
est differences  in  temperature  that  can  ever  have  exerted  an 
Influence  upon  the  vegetable  Inhabitants  of  this  world.  The 
biological  environment  has  changed  in  about  the  same  mea- 
sure, since  most  of  the  species  with  which  they  had  to  com- 
pete in  the  beginning  have  now  disappeared  and  been  sup- 
planted by  others.  In  this  case  it  is  once  more  clear  that 
environmental  changes  do  not  necessarily  change  specific 
characters.  And  from  this  we  may  conclude  that  either 
adaptations  have  wholly  different  causes,  or  at  least  that 
there  is  only  a  fortuitous,  and  no  real,  causal  connection 
between  the  two  large  groups  of  phenomena.  Darwin's 
proposition  that  the  changes  took  place  independently  of  the 
question  of  their  being  useful  or  not,  and  that  the  external 
influences  simply  furthered  the  first  and  thereby  extirpated 
the  useless,  seems  still  to  be  the  best  and  most  natural  ex- 
planation of  the  great  phenomena  of  biological  evolution. 

Local  varieties  and  geographical  races  are  often  adduced 
as  proofs  of  the  direct  Influence  of  external  factors.  A  cer- 
tain number  of  species,  growing  in  Europe  as  well  as  in 
America,  show  small  differences  which  hardly  reach  the 
degree  of  ordinary  varieties.  Hairiness,  size  and  form  of 
the  leaves,  and  other  minor  points  constitute  the  differen- 
tiating marks  {Veronica  scutellata,  Circaa  lutetiana,  etc.). 
Many  varieties  are  distinguished  as  australis,  arctica,  bore- 
alis,  or  as  var.  montana,  alpestris,  pyrenaica,  and  so  on. 
Often  such  varieties  show  beautiful  adaptations  to  the  local 
conditions  under  which  they  grow;  but  in  no  case  Is  It  pos- 

1:591] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

sible  to  tell  whether  they  have  acquired  these  during  their 
migration  or  during  their  stay  in  the  new  environment,  or 
perhaps  previous  to  their  being  subjected  to  the  influences 
in  question.  In  reality,  such  cases  have  no  value  at  all  as 
proofs;  they  may  be  explained  as  easily  in  one  way  as  in  the 
other. 

A  most  interesting  line  of  research  is  suggested  by  these 
considerations.  It  is  to  bring  the  descendants  of  the  most 
extreme  migrations  of  one  and  the  same  species  together  and 
to  cultivate  them  under  the  same  climate  and,  if  possible,  in 
the  same  biological  environment.  Three  cases  are  possible. 
In  the  first  one  we  may  happen  to  choose  plastic  species,  the 
individuals  of  which  may  live  under  very  different  conditions 
and  do  well.  Brought  together,  they  will  lose  their  differ- 
ences and  assume  the  same  form  and  structure.  Many  of 
them  will  do  so  even  if  only  rhizomes  or  cuttings  are  trans- 
ferred; others  from  seed,  in  the  very  first  generation;  and 
only  a  few,  as  it  seems,  will  need  one  or  two  generations 
before  the  temporary  influence  of  the  locality  from  which 
they  were  taken  will  be  wholly  lost.  The  second  case  refers 
to  those  species  which,  through  their  coarse  organization, 
hardly  need  any  plasticity  to  comply  with  the  most  diverse 
conditions.  Such  seems  to  be  the  nettle  {Urtica  dioica), 
which  follows  man  on  his  travels  all  over  the  earth,  and 
which  has  often  indicated  to  explorers  of  new  countries  the 
spots  which  had  already  previously  been  visited  by  others. 

Our  third  case  Is  that  of  the  local  varieties  and  geographi- 
cal races.  They  must  be  expected  to  keep  up  their  differ- 
ences, at  least  in  the  beginning.  But  by  continuing  the  ex- 
periment it  is  probable  that  some  of  them  will  yield  valu- 
able facts  for  a  decision  between  the  opposing  theories.  If 
the  external  conditions  have  a  direct  influence  on  specific  or 
varietal  characters,  changing  these  in  a  gradual  way  so  as 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

to  make  them  fit  for  their  environment,  It  must  be  expected 
that  the  differences  beween  our  local  varieties  will  slowly 
but  surely  disappear  by  cultivating  them  on  one  and  the  same 
spot.  If  such  direct  influence  does  not  exist,  two  results  may 
be  expected:  either  the  varieties  will  keep  their  differences 
Indefinitely,  or  they  may  show  atavistic  changes  which  will 
reduce  them  to  one  and  the  same  type.  Such  changes  will 
then,  however,  be  sudden  and  without  a  visible  relation  to 
the  environment.  Of  course  they  must  have  external  causes 
as  well  as  internal,  the  external  determining  the  moment  at 
which  the  event  will  happen,  and  probably  consisting  in  a 
combination  of  quite  a  number  of  factors.  The  factors 
being  the  ordinary  ones,  the  combination  may  be  temporarily 
a  new  one  and  thereby  produce  an  effect  not  previously  seen. 
However,  it  is  so  often  fallacious  to  Indicate  probable 
results  of  biological  experiments  that  It  seems  better  not  to 
extend  this  discussion.  Its  only  aim  is  to  show  an  easy  way 
In  which.  In  my  opinion,  experimental  proofs  concerning  the 
production  of  new  forms  of  plants  may  certainly  be  hoped 

for. 

Local  varieties  and  endemic  species  are  not  necessarily 
distinguished  from  their  nearest  allies  by  characters  that 
bear  the  stamp  of  an  adjustment  to  the  special  environment. 
They  may  have  originated  quite  independently  of  any  adap- 
tation. This  important  fact  has  been  pointed  out  by  Willis 
on  the  ground  of  his  observations  on  the  flora  of  Ceylon. 
On  this  Island  about  one  third  of  all  vegetable  species  are 
peculiar  to  It,  not  being  found  anywhere  else.  They  are 
endemic,  and,  at  least  for  the  majority  of  them,  we  must 
assume  that  they  have  originated  on  the  very  spots  where 
they  are  now  found,  and  probably  not  sufficiently  long  ago 
to  allow  us  to  assume  that  climatic  and  biological  conditions 
were  at  that  time  different  from  what  they  are  now.    So  here 

1:5933 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

we  have  a  most  desirable  opportunity  of  studying  specific 
characters  in  relation  to  the  environment  under  which  they 
did  originate.  Moreover,  the  endemic  species  of  Ceylon 
belong  to  genera  which  are  represented  in  its  flora  by  one 
or  more  common  species  widely  spread  on  this  island  and 
in  neighboring  countries,  and  which,  therefore,  may  in  many 
cases  be  presumed  to  be  the  ancestors  from  which  the  en- 
demic types  of  to-day  have  sprung. 

The  result  of  this  inquiry  has  been  illustrated  by  a  minute 
study  of  two  species  of  Coleiis.  C.  barhatus  is  a  quite  com- 
mon type  on  Ceylon,  but  C.  elongatus,  which  is  nearly  related 
to  it,  is  found  only  on  Mount  Ritigale,  a  mountain  which  is 
relatively  rich  in  species  which  do  not  occur  anywhere  else 
on  Ceylon  or  outside  of  it.  Willis  enumerates  the  differ- 
entiating marks  of  the  two  forms  in  a  table,  and  clearly 
shows  that  they  can  have  no  imaginable  relation  to  the  differ- 
ences in  environment.  Thus  the  marks  which  separated  the 
new  C.  elongatus  from  the  old  C.  barhatus  are  not  the  effect 
of  any  adjustment  to  its  new  habitat.  They  are  quite  inde- 
pendent of  any  such  process.  The  same  holds  good  for 
numerous  other  species  belonging  to  the  most  widely  diver- 
gent genera  and  growing  on  different  isolated  mountains. 
Nowhere  could  he  discover  any  proof  that  the  special  char- 
acters of  the  endemic  types  could  have  been  brought  about  in 
response  to  the  demands  of  the  local  surroundings. 

Cockayne,  in  his  studies  of  the  endemic  species  and  va- 
rieties of  New  Zealand,  comes  to  the  same  conclusion;  and 
lately  Gerbault  discovered  two  striking  mutations  of  Viola 
scotophylla  on  the  territory  of  Saint-Ouen-de-Mimbre  in  the 
department  of  Sarthe  in  France.  Both  of  them  occurred  in 
a  small  number  of  individuals  among  the  normal  specimens 
of  the  species,  and  their  particular  marks  showed  no  rela- 
tion whatever  to  their  environment.     Many  other  authors 

1:594] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

have  adduced  observations  of  the  same  kind,  showing  that, 
as  a  fact,  new  forms  may  w^ell  arise  without  any  response 
to  external  factors. 

Briefly  summing  up  the  results  of  this  discussion,  we  see, 
in  the  first  place,  that  migration  is  far  too  rare  a  phenome- 
non to  account  for  the  evolution  of  the  vegetable  kingdom, 
and  that  where  it  occurs,  it  proceeds  without  visibly  chang- 
ing the  migrating  forms.  In  the  same  way,  geological 
changes  of  climate  may  have  been  accompanied  by  the  pro- 
duction of  new  forms;  but  there  is  no  evidence  that  this  has 
occurred  in  such  a  way  as  to  provoke  directly  useful  changes. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  characters  of  local  and  endemic  types 
do  not  betray  any  definite  relation  to  their  special  environ- 
ment,—at  least  in  the  best  studied  instances.  All  in  all,  the 
facts  which  are  at  present  available  plead  against  the  hypoth- 
esis of  a  direct  adjusting  influence  of  environment  upon 
plants,  and  comply  with  the  proposition  of  changes  brought 
about  by  other  causes  and  afterward  subjected  to  natural 

selection. 

Personally,  I  assume  that  the  species-making  changes 
occur  by  leaps  and  bounds,  however  small ;  but  this  point  has 
not  been  referred  to  in  the  discussions  of  this  lecture. 

Hugo  de  Vries. 


[595] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


Third  Lecture 
MODERN  CYTOLOGICAL  PROBLEMS 

THE  modern  study  of  the  structure  of  living  cells  and 
of  their  different  parts  and  organs  marks  a  definite 
period  in  the  history  of  biological  science.     An  increasing 
number  of  students  are  turning  their  efforts  to  these  ques- 
tions, and  the  methods  of  research  are  continually  develop- 
ing themselves.    Foremost  among  botanists  are  Strasburger 
and  Gregoire;  among  zoologists,  Wilson  and  Boveri;  but 
many  other  celebrated  names  would  have  to  be  added.   This 
whole  line  of  thought  has  come  under  the  influence  of  the 
idea  of  Roux,  which  states  a  distinct  parallelism  between  the 
life-history  of  growing  and  dividing  cells  and  the  phenomena 
of  heredity.     A  large  part  of  the  work  now  being  done  in 
the  field  of  cytology  goes  to  support  these  views  of  Roux, 
and  to  show  the  exact  coincidence,  even  in  minute  details,  of 
the  facts  observed  in  cells  and  of  the  processes  we  would 
expect  to  find  in  them  on  the  ground  of  this  hypothesis. 
Text-books  and  reviews  give  adequate  information  on  these 
subjects,  and  the  extensive  material  of  facts  is,  in  all  its  de- 
tails, easily  available  to  the  student. 

In  this  work  the  attention  is  focused  on  the  questions  con- 
cerned with  the  nucleus,  with  its  structure  and  the  process  of 
its  division.  Under  this  influence,  the  study  of  the  outer 
parts  of  the  protoplasm  has  been  somewhat  neglected.  They 
ask  for  different  methods;  fixed  and  stained  material  is 
hardly  suitable  for  them.  The  arbitrary  division  of  the 
whole  protoplasm  into  nucleus  and  cytoplasm,  although  very 
easy  in  the  study  of  the  former,  is  only  too  liable  to  diminish 
the  interest  of  the  latter. 

For  this  reason,  I  shall  try  to  give  here  a  short  survey  of 

[596] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

cytological  questions  not  directly  connected  with  the  present 
main  lines  of  study.  On  most  of  these  points  the  available 
facts  are  still  insufficient  for  a  definite  judgment,  and  authors 
differ  in  their  appreciation  of  the  facts,  according  to  their 
own  partial  experience  or  to  the  text-books  they  are  using. 

The  great  principle  of  all  natural  science  is  that  of  gen- 
eralization. Without  it,  all  our  knowledge  would  be  only 
imperfect  and  partial;  in  fact,  how  small  is  the  number  of 
cases  studied,  in  comparison  with  the  almost  unlimited  array 
of  instances  really  occurring  in  nature!  Generalization  is 
at  once  a  right  and  a  duty;  without  it,  the  applicability  of 
well  proved  facts  would  be  so  limited  as  to  be  hardly  of  any 
use.  It  is  the  best  guide  in  almost  all  special  researches,  and 
if  Darwin's  theory  of  evolution  were  measured  only  by  the 
number  of  new  facts  to  the  discovery  of  which  it  has  shown 
the  way,  it  would  still  occupy  a  foremost  place  in  the  history 
of  scientific  investigation. 

From  this  point  of  view,  the  student  who  is  not  contented 
with  following  the  acknowledged  lines  of  work,  but  wishes 
to  enlarge  the  field  of  his  investigations,  has  to  start  from 
the  well  established  facts  brought  forward  in  the  best  studied 
parts  of  his  field  of  research,  to  use  them  as  the  basis  for 
broad  generalizations,  and  then  to  control  the  results  these 
last  will  yield  when  applied  to  special  cases. 

In  this  lecture,  therefore,  I  will  try  to  indicate  some  of 
these  broad  generalizations  and  show  which  fields  of  inquiry 
they  open  and  to  which  suggestions  they  lead,  hoping  in  this 
way  to  direct  the  interest  to  some  points  which  have  been 
wholly  neglected  and  to  others  which  are  misunderstood  by 
lack  of  the  right  guiding  principles.  Many  valuable  sugges- 
tions may  be  derived  from  the  work  of  older  investigators; 
these  have  lain  dormant  for  long  periods  of  years,  have  been 
lost  from  view,  but  have  not,  therefore,  lost  their  usefulness. 

[597] 


k\ 


vl 

%1 


I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

My  first  and  main  point  is  the  hypothesis  of  panmerism. 
The  different  parts  of  the  Hving  protoplasm  multiply  them- 
selves  by  division,  and  in  the  large  number  of  well  ascer- 
tained cases  this  is  their  only  way  of  originating.     The  one 
does  not  produce  the  other;  each  organ  reproduces  only 
itself.    For  the  nucleus  this  fact  is  now  one  of  the  best  estab- 
lished of  the  whole  field;  experience  and  theory  agree  in 
leaving  not  the  least  doubt  concerning  its  general  validity. 
Boveri's  great  discovery  of  the  individuality  of  chromo- 
somes shows  its  validity  for  these  bodies  especially;  histori- 
cally  considered,  it  shows,  at  the  same  time,  the  difficulty  in 
gaining  a  general  conviction  even  for  such  a  clear  and  simple 
conception.    The  golden  rule  simplex  sigillum  veri  is  gener- 
ally slow  in  its  working ! 

In  the  second  place,  we  have  the  work  of  Schmitz, 
Schimper,  and  Arthur  Meyer  on  the  great  group  of  the 
leucoplasts  and  their  derivatives.  The  amyloplasts  which 
produce  the  starch-grains  from  sugars,  the  chlorophyll  bodies 
mto  which  they  may  change  by  assuming  a  green  color,  the 
chromoplasts  which  in  so  many  cases  are  clearly  derived 
from  these,  follow  the  rule  established  for  the  nuclei.  They 
multiply  by  division,  are  in  most  cases  easily  seen  to  do  so, 
and  no  other  way  of  their  originating  has  as  yet  been  demon- 
strated beyond  a  doubt.  The  number  of  well  studied  cases 
is  so  large  that  the  exceptions,  if  such  there  are,  may  well 
be  regarded  as  only  apparent  and  in  need  of  a  careful  re- 
investigation. 

From  these  two  cases  we  may  turn  our  attention  to  the 
ectoplasm,  or  ectoplast,  as  it  should  rather  be  called.  It  is 
multiplied  in  the  division  of  cells,  the  larger  part  of  the 
ectoplasm  of  the  two  daughter-cells  being  simply  the  two 
halves  of  the  same  organ  of  the  mother-cell.  Doubts  exist 
only  in  regard  to  the  origin  of  the  new  parts  lying  along  the 

1:5983 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

division-plane.  This  origin  is  best  known  from  the  study  of 
quite  a  number  of  investigators  in  the  case  of  Spirogyra. 
Here  the  ectoplasm  is  folded  inward,  the  fold  going  all 
around  the  cell  and  steadily  increasing  toward  its  center  until 
the  division  is  complete.  The  new  parts  clearly  originate 
from  the  old  one,  no  new  ectoplasm  being  independently 
produced.  If  we  now  take  this  case  as  a  prototype  and  try 
to  apply  it  to  all  other  cases  of  ordinary  cell-division  in 
plants,  no  serious  obstacle  is  encountered.  The  division 
always  starts  from  the  old  cell-wall;  sometimes  from  all 
sides,  at  other  times  beginning  at  one  point  and  slowly  ex- 
tending from  this.  Evidently  this  is  a  difference  of  only 
secondary  importance.  Even  in  embryo-sacs,  which  divide 
their  nuclei  a  great  many  times  before  cell-division  begins, 
the  nuclei  are  known  to  distribute  themselves  in  a  single  layer 
along  the  ectoplast,  and  the  division  takes  its  first  start  from 
this,  proceeding  inward  toward  the  central  vacuole. 

The  only  well  ascertained  exception  to  the  general  appli- 
cability of  the  principle  of  panmerism  to  the  ectoplasts  is  in 
the  case  of  the  origin  of  the  ascospores  as  studied  by  Har- 
per. We  should  expect  the  original  nucleus,  from  which  all 
the  nuclei  of  the  spores  in  the  same  ascus  are  ultimately  de- 
rived, to  be  surrounded  by  its  own  protoplasm,  having  its 
own  ectoplast,  which  would  be  derived  in  the  ordinary  way 
of  cell-division  from  the  ectoplast  of  the  ascus  itself.  No 
such  structures  have  as  yet  been  described,  although  the  ob- 
served facts  do  not  exclude  their  possibility.  The  case  may 
be  the  same  as  that  of  the  spermatozooids  of  phanerogams, 
which  were  for  many  years  taken  to  be  nuclei  only,  until 
Guignard  discovered  their  thin  layer  of  outer  protoplasm. 

The  most  difficult  case  seems  to  be  that  of  the  vacuoles. 
Since  Went  first  showed  them  to  exist  in  meristematic  and  in 
sexual  cells,  which  were  formerly  held  to  consist  of  solid  pro- 

[599] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

toplasm  only,  their  general  occurrence  in  young  cells  Is 
almost  universally  conceded  and  the  net-structure  observed 
in  these  elements  is  recognized  to  be  due  to  their  presence. 
They  are  well  known  to  divide  and  also  to  combine  into  larger 
vacuoles  with  the  definite  differentiation  of  the  growing  cell. 
Many  authors,  however,  assume  that,  besides  multiplying  by 
division,  they  may  also  originate  directly  from  the  ordinary 
cytoplasm.  It  is  easy  to  see  them  dividing  In  living  cells,  but 
to  observe  their  independent  origin  might  be  extremely  diffi- 
cult, and  convincing  proofs  have  not  as  yet  been  given.  Some 
authors  have  supported  their  opinion  from  observations  on 
the  origin  of  vacuoles  in  the  Myxomycetes;  but  then  they 
have  confounded  the  real  water-vacuoles  with  the  so-called 
food-vacuoles,  which  are  parts  of  the  ectoplast  pushed  in- 
ward with  the  food  particles  and  surrounding  these. 

The  least  known  part  of  the  cell  is,  beyond  doubt,  the 
granular  plasm,  which  in  so  many  plant  cells  is  seen  to  flow 
along  the  cell-wall.  Before  discussing  this  point,  however, 
I  wish  to  consider  the  current  conception  concerning  the  way 
in  which  the  nucleus  exercises  its  influence  on  the  surrounding 
parts  of  the  protoplast.  From  numerous  observations  it  is 
evident  that  such  relations  must  exist.  Tangl  and  Nestler 
studied  the  movements  of  the  nuclei  in  response  to  wounds, 
and  showed  that  they  precede  and  regulate  the  cell-divisions 
which  lead  to  the  production  of  a  new  layer  of  cork,  shutting 
off  the  injured  parts  of  the  tissues.  Many  other  similar  cases 
have  been  described  by  Haberlandt,  but  the  most  interesting 
are  the  experimental  researches  of  Gerassimow  on  Spiro- 
gyra.  This  author  discovered  that  by  means  of  sudden  re- 
frigeration with  ether  or  chloroform  dividing  cells  of  this 
alga  may  be  induced  to  contract  the  connecting  fibers  of  their 
nuclei  in  such  a  way  as  to  bring  both  of  the  nuclei  into  one 
cell.     The  division  of  the  cell  itself  is  not  hindered  by  this 

[600] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

process,  and  at  the  end  of  it  we  have  one  cell  with  two  nuclei 
and  one  without  such  an  organ.    Both  may  be  kept  alive  for 
weeks,  but  their  functions  are  seen  to  be  different.     The 
nucleated  cells  grow  and  divide  almost  In  the  same  way  as 
normal  ones,  but  the  enucleated  elements  lack  this  property. 
They  continue  to  produce  organic  food  from  the  carbon 
dioxld  of  the  surrounding  water,  heap  It  on  in  their  chloro- 
plasts,  and  increase  their  osmotic  pressure  accordingly;  but 
there  is  hardly  any  sign  of  their  being  able  to  use  this  food 
for  further  growth  and  differentiation.    From  these  facts  we 
conclude  that  the  ectoplast,  in  order  to  maintain  the  exten- 
sion and  growth  of  the  cell-wall,  must  derive  something  from 
the  nucleus.     If  this  latter  be  cut  off  from  a  cell  by  a  cell- 
wall,  no  such  derivation  is  any  longer  possible.    The  induce- 
ment derived  from  the  nucleus  may  continue  to  work  for  a 
short  time,  as  in  the  experiments  of  Klebs  on  plasmolytic 
cells  of  Spirogyra.    Here  the  protoplast  may  be  divided  into 
two  parts;  the  one  containing  the  nucleus  will  make  a  new 
cell  wall  and  continue  to  grow,  while  the  other  half  may  sur- 
round itself  by  a  thin  layer  of  cellulose,  but  soon  must  stop 
Its  production.     No  cell-division  occurs  in  the  cells  without 
a  nucleus,  and  their  further  behavior  shows  that  probably 
all  their  functions  may  last  only  a  limited  time.    At  the  end 
deterioration  and  death  are  the  result  of  the  impossibility  of 
being  affected  by  the  nucleus. 

Continuance  and  regulation  of  the  functions  of  the  outer 
organs  of  the  protoplasts  thus  depend  on  the  activity  of  the 
nucleus.  Something  is  given  off  which  stimulates  and  directs 
the  work  of  the  other  organs.  It  is  possible,  however,  in 
very  rare  cases  to  observe  this  influence  directly.  The  best 
Instance  Is  that  of  the  origin  of  the  blepharoplasts  in  the 
spermatozooids  of  the  common  liverwort,  Marchantia  poly- 
morpha,  studied  by  Ikeno.     In  the  mother-cells  of  these 

[601] 


/ 


f.t-i-sW— .<|i«^#«i*.-'Mfc***»»— ' 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

organs  he  saw,  shortly  before  the  last  divisions,  small  sepa- 
rate granular  bodies  lying  in  the  nuclei.  Such  bodies  are 
lacking  in  the  nuclei  of  ordinary  vegetative  cells,  and  also 
during  the  divisions  that  lead  to  the  production  of  the  mother- 
cells.  After  appearing  in  these,  these  granular  bodies  soon 
leave  the  nuclei  and  take  their  places  at  the  poles  of  the 
nuclear  spindle.  Here  they  stay  until  the  divisions  have  finally 
led  to  the  formation  of  the  spermatozooids,  and  in  this  last 
phase  they  are  moved  toward  one  of  the  ends  of  the  cell, 
where  they  combine  with  the  ectoplast  and  grow  along  with 
this,  producing  that  part  of  this  organ  from  which  the  cilia 
will  be  protruded.  They  then  take  the  name  of  blepharo- 
plasts.  Thus  we  see  that  a  main  part,  at  least,  of  these 
organs  is  directly  derived  from  the  nucleus,  and  we  may 
confidently  assume  that  the  ectoplasm,  without  this  acquisi- 
tion, would  not  of  itself  be  able  to  build  up  the  cilia. 

From  these  and  numerous  other  facts  we  may  derive  the 
conclusion  that  the  means  by  which  the  nuclei  stimulate  and 
direct  the  functions  of  the  other  organs  of  the  protoplast 
consist  in  the  giving  off  of  material  particles  which  combine 
with  those  organs,  multiply  themselves  within  them,  and 
thus  determine  their  functions.  It  is  probable  that  the  larger 
part  of  them  is  given  off  during  the  resting  stage,  and  not 
during  mitosis.  Many  authors— and  among  them,  in  the 
first  place,  Conklin— have  observed  the  excretion  of  material 
particles  from  the  nucleus.  They  are  often  stained  in  the 
same  way  as  the  chromatin,  and  not  rarely  exceed  by  far  the 
quantity  of  these  substances  found  at  the  same  time  within 
the  nuclei.  This  shows  that  before  leaving  them  they  are 
produced  in  such  quantities  as  may  well  support  the  view  of 
their  great  importance  in  the  regulation  of  hereditary  char- 
acters. 

Leaving  the  study  of  the  many  possibilities  concerning  the 

i;6o2  3 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

properties  of  these  material  bearers  of  characters  to  those 
interested  in  the  hypothesis  of  intracellular  pangenesis,  we 
have  here  only  to  consider  the  question  as  to  how  these  par- 
ticles may  be  conveyed  from  the  nucleus  toward  the  organs 
they  are  destined  to  supply  with  the  means  of  further  activ- 
ity. Here  we  are  struck  by  the  fact  that  in  so  many  cells  the 
nucleus  is  the  center  of  the  flowing  movements  of  the  granu- 
lar protoplasm.  The  hairs  of  Cucurhita  and  those  on  the 
stamens  of  Tradescantia  are  the  best  known  instances:  the 
currents  are  seen  to  radiate  from  the  nucleus  in  almost  all 
directions.  In  other  cases  there  is  only  one  rotating  current, 
and  it  goes  along  the  nucleus  or  even  may  carry  this  around 
the  cell,  as  in  VaUisneria.  From  such  cases  we  may  derive 
the  supposition  that  these  currents  must  be  the  ways,  and 
even  the  means,  for  the  transportation  of  the  material  bear- 
ers of  the  hereditary  characters.  From  their  place  of  origin 
they  may  reach  any  point  of  the  living  part  of  the  cell,  every 
single  leucoplast  or  chloroplast  and  every  more  or  less  dif- 
ferentiated part  of  the  ectoplast.  It  is  a  curious  fact  that  in 
the  large  cells  of  Spirogyra  the  starch-producing  parts  of 
the  spiral  bands  of  chlorophyll  are  often  directly  combined 
by  fine  threads  with  the  central  nucleus.  Their  special  dif- 
ferentiation, part  of  which  is  directed  toward  the  accumu- 
lation of  albuminous  substances,  would  lead  us  to  expect 
such  a  connection. 

Beyond  all  doubt,  the  transportation  of  these  pangens  is 
not  the  only  function  of  the  flowing  protoplasm.  In  many 
cases  it  is  evident  that  it  serves  for  the  transportation  of 
nutrient  substances,  and  in  one  of  the  best  known  instances— 
that  of  Chara  and  Nitella—k  would  seem  obvious  that  this 
is  their  main  function.  The  big  and  beautiful  starch  grains 
which  these  plants  heap  up  during  the  summer  in  the  lower 
parts  of  their  stems  — often  concealed  in  the  mud  of  the 

1:603] 


^ 


n 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

ponds,  and  serving  as  reserve  material  for  the  winter—are 
evidently  derived  from  the  activity  of  the  upper  parts  and 
branches  of  the  stems.  The  only  means  for  this  extensive 
transportation  of  nutritive  material  is  evidently  given  in  the 
currents  of  the  protoplasm,  and  these  flow  exactly  in  the 
direction  which  this  conception  would  lead  us  to  expect. 
The  rapidity  of  these  currents  is  such  that  if  there  were  no 
cell  walls  across  the  tube,  the  visible  particles  would  be  trans- 
ported at  a  speed  of  about  one  meter  per  twenty-four  hours. 
This  would  amply  suffice  to  bring  the  products  of  the  activity 
of  the  chlorophyll  to  the  bottom  of  the  pond. 

The  movement  of  the  protoplasm  in  Chara  and  Nitella, 
just  quoted,  was  formerly  considered  as  one  of  nature's 
greatest  curiosities.  It  is  more  in  the  line  of  modern  re- 
search to  consider  it  as  an  extreme  instance  of  a  general  rule. 
Everywhere  in  the  plant  kingdom  where  vascular  organs  for 
transportation  are  absent,  these  currents  assume  this  func- 
tion. This  fact  is  most  evident  in  hairs  in  general,  and  espe- 
cially in  the  root-hairs.  In  the  latter,  as  was  shown  by 
Jonsson  and  others,  the  granular  protoplasm  is  almost  al- 
ways seen  to  flow  from  the  top  of  the  hair  toward  Its  base 
and  backward,  thus  affording  a  tangible  conveyance  for  all 
the  substances  absorbed  by  the  hairs.  In  many  tissues  these 
mov^ements  may  also  be  seen  taking  place  easily  in  watery 
parts,  but  with  some  difficulty  in  drier  organs,  such  as  the 
bark  of  woody  species.  Even  in  the  merlstematic  condition 
the  protoplasm  seems  never  to  be  at  rest,  at  least  under 
favorable  conditions,  but  always  more  or  less  clearly  flow- 
ing. Some  authors,  it  is  true,  have  not  succeeded  in  control- 
ling these  facts,  and  have  even  been  led  to  consider  the 
movements  In  such  tissues  as  due  to  accidental  causes,  as,  for 
example,  the  Injuring  of  the  cells  In  the  making  of  the  micro- 
scopical preparations.     This,  however,   must  be  distinctly 

[604] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

considered  as  erroneous,  the  phenomena  being  far  too  gen- 
eral for  such  an  explanation  and  requiring  a  too  special  dif- 
ferentiation of  the  protoplasm  to  allow  the  suggestion  of  an 

accident. 

Outside  of  the  vascular  tissues,  the  flowing  of  the  proto- 
plasm is  the  only  intensive  means  of  transportation  of  nu- 
trient material.  Diffusion  is  too  slow,  by  far,  for  this  end. 
From  the  celebrated  experiments  of  Graham  on  liquid  dif- 
fusion, Stephan  has  calculated  the  time  one  milligram  of 
common  salt  (NaCl)  would  require  to  ascend  from  a  solu- 
tion of  ten  per  cent.,  through  a  vertical  column  of  water,  to 
a  height  of  one  meter.  He  found  that  it  would  take  three 
hundred  and  nineteen  days. 

Cane-sugar  is  much  slower  and  would  need  two  years  and 
seven  months  for  the  same  height,  under  the  same  condi- 
tions; while  with  albuminous  substances  the  experiment 
would  last  about  fourteen  years.  Such  velocities  are  evi- 
dently Inadequate  for  the  movements  of  soluble  substances 
In  plants;  moreover,  the  differences  in  concentration  are 
almost  always  much  smaller  than  in  Stephan's  examples.  If 
one  takes  a  glass  tube  of  over  one  meter  in  length,  filled  with 
water  and  initially  containing  some  crystals  of  a  colored  salt 
{e.g.,  sulphate  of  copper)  at  its  base,  it  is  easy  to  show  that 
It  takes  more  than  a  year  for  the  salt  to  reach  the  upper  parts 
In  a  visible  quantity. 

The  experiments  of  Janse  with  Caulerpa  have  shown  the 
great  importance  and  high  degree  of  differentiation  of  the 
protoplasmic  currents  in  these  big  unicellular  algae.  Pollen- 
tubes  show  the  same  phenomenon  In  their  living  parts,  and 
the  same  may  be  seen  everywhere  else.  In  young  roots  there 
Is  an  almost  continual  circulation  of  the  protoplasm  in  the 
cells  of  the  cortical  tissues,  conveying  the  absorbed  sub- 
stances from  the  root-hairs,  through  the  endodermis,  toward 

[6053 


^i 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

the  vascular  bundles.  In  the  endodermis  these  substances 
are  taken  up  and  brought  under  that  osmotic  pressure  which 
will  bring  them  upward  by  means  of  the  great  current  of 
fluid  in  the  vessels  of  the  xylem. 

It  is  commonly  assumed  that  the  flowing  protoplasm  is  a 
living  part  of  the  cell  and  produces  its  movement  through 
its  own  organization.     Hofmeister  was  among  the  first  to 
work  out  this  idea,  but  it  is  to  Engelmann  that  a  definite 
theory  of  this  action  is  due.  He  compared  the  flowing  proto- 
plasm with  the  movements  of  muscles,  assuming  contractile 
elements  in  it  which  would  be  analogous  to  the  visible  sar- 
cous  elements  of  the  muscles.     In  changing  their  capability 
for  imbibition  of  water  in  response  to  stimuli,  these  con- 
tractile elements  would  increase  in  breadth,  but  decrease  in 
length.     Such  a  polarity  might  also  be  deduced  from  other 
observations,  as,  for  example,  those  of  the  changes  of  the 
refraction  of  light  in  some  particular  instances.     The  ex- 
planation of  the  circulating  and  rotating  movements  of  the 
granular  protoplasm,  based  on  this  principle,  requires  the 
assumption  of  a  regular  periodic  contraction  of  these  parti- 
cles.    But  when  we  try  to  apply  it  to  specially  observed  in- 
stances, great  difliculties  are  met  with  and  new  hypotheses 
almost  always  must  be  sought  in  order  to  surmount  them.  A 
really  satisfactory  conception  of  the  whole  mechanism  can 
hardly  be  reached  on  the  basis  of  this  principle. 

Leaving  it,  w^e  come  to  the  opposite  extreme  and  must 
assume  that  the  flowing  protoplasm  is  not  a  living  part  of 
the  cell,  but  only  a  more  or  less  viscous  fluid.  The  source 
of  its  movements  must  then  be  looked  for  outside  of  it, 
partly  along  the  ectoplast,  partly  along  the  tonoplasts  or 
walls  of  the  vacuoles,  where  the  currents  pass  between  these. 
We  are  led  to  the  hypothesis  of  invisible  tracks  on  which  the 
impulse   for  these  currents  must  be  produced.     This  hy- 

1:6063 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

pothesis  seems  not  as  yet  to  have  attracted  much  attention, 
but  it  has  the  advantage  of  explaining  the  observed  facts  on 
the  basis  of  analogous  observations,  without  requiring  for 
them  a  new  fundamental  theory.  It  simply  brings  the  flow- 
ing of  the  inner  granular  protoplasm  in  line  with  other  cases 
of  protoplasmic  movement. 

In  order  to  elucidate  this  conception  we  may  take  as  an 
example  the  observations  of  Max  Schulze  on  the  movements 
of  diatoms.  He  studied  them  in  water  to  which  a  small 
amount  of  finely  divided  carmin  was  added.  The  most  strik- 
ing case  is  that  of  a  diatom  lying  on  one  of  its  flat  sides  and 
turning  the  other  upward.  When  particles  of  the  carmin,  in 
sinking,  come  in  contact  with  the  central  line  of  this  side, 
they  are  seen  to  move  along  it  until  they  reach  the  end  of 
the  cell,  then  turn  backward  and  proceed  along  the  same 
line.  Other  particles  may  sink,  but  not  touch  this  central 
line  directly  beside  them;  these  will  show  no  movement. 
From  these  and  other  observations,  Schulze  decided  that 
there  must  exist  a  narrow  band  of  outer  protoplasm,  which, 
although  as  limpid  as  water  and  thereby  invisible,  would  be 
the  pushing  force  and  actually  carry  the  particles  that  fell 
on  it.  This  same  track  of  protoplasm  would  suflice  to  ex- 
plain the  ordinary  movements  of  the  diatoms  when  they  slide 
along  larger  algas,  or  along  one  another  (as  in  the  case  of 
Bacillaria),  or  upon  the  glass  slides  in  microscopical  prepa- 
rations. It  is  well  known  that  they  can  move  only  when 
they  touch  other  objects  by  one  of  their  faces,  and  that  they 
are  always  at  rest  when  lying  on  their  side.  The  energy  de- 
veloped in  these  movements  is  sufficiently  judged  of  by  the 
size  of  the  cell  and  the  rapidity  of  their  gliding,  but  Schulze 
showed  that  they  are  even  capable  of  carrying  much  larger 
weights  with  them. 

The  assuming  of  analogous  tracks  of  active  protoplasm 

[607] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

in  ordinary  cells  would  seem  to  give  a  sufficient  basis  for  the 
explanation  of  the  phenomena  of  circulation  and  rotation. 
The  tracks  would  be  active,  the  currents  passive  and  pushed 
by  them.  It  would  be  an  easy  matter  to  explain  the  undulat- 
ing movements  on  the  tracks  by  comparing  them  with  mus- 
cles, cilia,  and  other  widely  studied  objects. 

If  the  tracks  are  active  and  the  flowing  parts  passive,  we 
should  expect  the  velocity  to  be  the  greatest  for  those  parts 
which  are  directly  in  contact  with  the  tracks  and  to  diminish 
with  increasing  distance.     Such  differences  in  velocity  are 
well  known  in  many  cases,  but  have  been  studied  most  accu- 
rately by  a  great  number  of  investigators  in  the  case  of 
Nitella.   According  to  Nageli,  Dutrochet,  Goppert,  Cohn,  and 
others,  the  outer  layers  of  the  mighty  current  in  the  large 
cells  of  this  alga  are  seen  to  be  the  fastest  in  their  move- 
ments, the  velocity  decreasing  toward  the  central  vacuole  as 
well  as  toward  the  limits  of  the  current,  which  are  indicated 
by  the  absence  of  one  of  the  longitudinal  rows  of  chlorophyll 
bodies.  With  decreasing  vitality  the  current  stops  first  along 
these  sides,  thereby  becoming  narrower,   and  the  central 
parts,  which  ordinarily  are  the  quickest,  are  also  the  last  to 
retain  their  movement.     It  is  clear  that  the  whole  of  the 
protoplasmic  fluid  is  pushed  by  the  activity  of  a  stratum  of 
outer  protoplasm  clothing  the  layer  of  the  chlorophyll  bodies 
on  the  inside  and   following  the  direction  of  the  spirally 
ascending  lines  of  these  organs.     Similar  observations  have 
been  made  by  Vesque  for  the  root-hairs  of  Hydrocharis,  and 
by  Heidenhain  and  Jiirgensen  in  the  leaves  of  Vallisneria. 
These  hypothetical  pushing  tracks  would  have  to  be  con- 
sidered as  living  organs  of  the  cell  with  the  same  right  as 
chloroplasts  and  other  visible  parts.    They  may  be  assumed 
to  be  morphologically  constant,  but  very  variable  in  their 
degree  of  activity,  and  changing  the  direction  of  their  move- 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

ment,  from  time  to  time,  as  in  the  case  of  the  diatoms  just 
quoted.  One  of  the  best  instances  for  their  study  is  afforded 
by  the  tentacles  of  Drosera  at  the  time  of  digesting  insects 
or  other  albuminous  food.  Then  the  large  vacuole,  with  its 
deeply  stained  red  contents,  is  seen  to  become  excessively 
contracted  and  at  the  same  time  divided  into  numerous 
smaller  ones.  A  great  space  Is  produced  between  the  ecto- 
plast  and  the  tonoplasts— a  space  which  Is  probably  used  for 
the  rapid  transportation  of  large  quantities  of  albumen. 
Freed  from  the  greater  vacuoles,  the  currents  of  the  flowing 
protoplasm  become  more  easily  visible  and  small  vacuoles 
of  different  forms  and  sizes  adhere  to  them  like  drops  of  a 
red  liquor  and  are  clearly  moved  along  them.  Here  the  con- 
ception of  semi-solid  pushing  tracks  sticking  to  the  ecto- 
plast  at  once  suggests  itself;  it  affords  a  simple  and  easy 
explanation  of  all  these  most  curious  phenomena  which  make 
the  study  of  these  tentacles  a  very  attractive  one. 

Semi-solid  tracks  of  the  kind  described  seem  to  play  a 
large  part  in  the  differentiation  of  cells,  and  especially  in 
the  production  of  their  ultimate  form  and  of  the  structure 
of  their  walls.  This  principle  is  most  beautifully  illustrated 
by  the  description,  given  by  Dippel,  of  the  evolution  of  the 
spiral  threads  in  the  elaters  of  the  liverworts.  He  studied 
especially  the  cases  of  Marchantia  polymorpha  and  Fega- 
tella  conica.  These  elaters  are  long  and  narrow  cells  with 
a  double  spiral  which  suddenly  extends  on  the  opening  of  the 
fruit,  and  thereby  flings  out  the  numerous  spores  lying  be- 
tween them.  In  the  young  fruits  the  elaters  are  still  small, 
filled  with  protoplasm,  and  with  a  smooth  cell  wall.  Numer- 
ous vacuoles  are  seen  within  the  granular  substance.  Gradu- 
ally these  arrange  themselves  along  the  ectoplast,  taking 
definite  positions  and  leaving  between  them  tracks  of  the 
granular  protoplasm  which  combine  together  to  constitute 

[6093 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

a  double  spiral  band.     Soon  after,  this  band  becomes  the 
prototype  of  the  ultimate  spiral  of  the  elater,  exactly  indi- 
cating the  line  along  which  this  latter  will  be  produced.    But 
it  still  consists  only  of  protoplasm.    This  is  easily  seen  when 
the  contents  are  isolated  from  the  cell-wall  by  means  of  plas- 
molytic  contraction;  for  the  inside  of  the  wall  is  still  wholly 
smooth,  without  the  least  indication  of  a  spiral  structure. 
Then  the  deposition  of  cellulose  begins  along  the  outside 
of  the  tracks,  while  the  currents  of  the  fluid  plasm  follow 
these  on  their  inside.     In  this  way  the  final  spiral  is  laid 
down  against  the  wall,  and  after  this  is  completed  the  proto- 
plasm will  be  disorganized  and  ultimately  disappear.    Thus 
the  structure  of  the  wall  may  be  considered  simply  as  a  copy 
of  the  corresponding  structure  of  the  protoplast.  Analogous 
phenomena  have  been  observed  in  the  evolution  of  the  net- 
coverings  of  the  inside  of  many  vessels,  and  in  other  cases. 
This  intimate  connection  of  the  ectoplast  and  its  conduct- 
ing tracks  of  flowing  plasm  with  the  differentiation  of  the 
cell-wall  leads  us  to  consider  this  organ  also  as  a  living 
part  of  the  whole  protoplast.     Unfortunately  it  is  almost 
always  so  very  thin  that  no  definite  structure  can  be  seen,  but 
in  the  rare  cases  of  greater  thickness  such  a  structure  be- 
comes evident  and  is  well  known.    The  best  instances  are  the 
Myxomycetes,  where  Strasburger  and  others  have  studied 
it,  and  the  swarm-spores  of  some  algse,  where  a  connection 
of  the  structure  of  the  ectoplast  with  the  bases  of  the  ciHa 
may  be  observed. 

The  question  of  the  semi-permeability  of  the  ectoplasm  is 
not  directly  connected  with  that  of  its  living  condition.  The 
task  of  regulating  the  diffusion  of  soluble  substances  into  the 
protoplast,  and  from  this  outward,  need  not  necessarily  be 
confided  to  the  whole  ectoplasm,  since  an  extremely  thin 
outer  layer  would  be  quite  sufficient  for  it.     We  may  even 

1:6103 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

suppose  the  ectoplast  clothed  with  a  kind  of  precipitation 
membrane,  but  it  is  an  open  question  whether  such  a  supposi- 
tion would  suffice  to  explain  the  phenomena  of  permeability. 
I  can  only  allude  to  Overton's  theory,  which  assumes  the 
outer  layer  of  the  ectoplast  to  be  impregnated  by  a  mixture 
of  cholesterin,  lecithin,  and  allied  substances,  and  the  pro- 
cesses of  permeation  to  be  regulated  by  the  solubility  of  the 
different  substances  in  this  mixture.  The  facts  given  by 
Kuster  and  others  agree  in  the  main  with  this  idea,  but  show 
deviations  in  detail  which,  however,  may  be  due  to  a  lack  of 
sufficient  knowledge  of  all  the  chemical  compounds  which 
really  constitute  the  cholesterin-lecithin  layer. 

A  chief  function  of  the  ectoplast  is  the  lengthening  of  the 
cell  wall  during  the  period  of  growth.  The  stretching  force, 
of  course,  is  given  by  the  osmotic  pressure  or  turgor  of  the 
cell  sap,  but  it  is  the  cell  wall  that  regulates  the  extension  in 
so  far  as  it  makes  some  parts  extensible  and  others  not. 
This  problem  has  been  m.ost  thoroughly  studied  by  Errera 
in  the  case  of  a  mold,  Phycomyces  nitens.  Here  it  is  clear 
that  in  the  same  cell  the  young  growing  parts  are  extensible, 
while  the  older  ones  are  not.  Extensibility  depends  mainly 
upon  the  presence  of  colloidal  pectinous  substances  in  the 
cell-wall,  and  may  be  increased  locally  and  temporarily  by 
the  changing  of  these  into  soluble  compounds.  This  inver- 
sion is  ascribed  to  the  intervention  of  enzymes,  which,  in 
their  turn,  must  be  exuded  in  distinct  places  and  at  the 
proper  times  by  the  ectoplast,  thereby  indicating  a  differ- 
entiation of  this  organ  which  may  be  considered  as  wholly 
analogous  to  that  described  in  the  example  of  the  elaters  of 

liverworts. 

I  must  now  return  to  a  consideration  of  the  tonoplasts  or 
walls  of  the  vacuoles.  As  already  pictured,  these  also  must 
be  considered  as  living  parts  of  the  cell,  as  organs  whose 


( 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

main  function  is  the  accumulation  of  soluble  matter  in  the 
cell  sap,  partly  as  food  material  and  partly  as  the  source  of 
osmotic  pressure.  These  tonoplasts  may  be  clothed  on  their 
inner  side,  towards  the  cell  sap,  by  a  semi-permeable  layer 
analogous  to  that  on  the  outside  of  the  ectoplast;  but  facts 
which  would  allow  of  a  discussion  of  this  hypothesis  are  for 
the  present  hardly  available. 

The  function  of  the  tonoplasts  is  a  double  one.  One  re- 
lates to  the  exosmosis,  the  other  to  the  endosmosis,  of  the 
constituents  of  the  cell  sap.  In  regard  to  the  first  process, 
they  behave,  so  far  as  we  now  know,  according  to  the  laws 
governing  diffusion  through  semi-permeable  walls.  These 
processes  seem  to  be  wholly  of  a  physico-chemical  nature. 
Far  different  from  this  is  their  behavior  as  affecting  endos- 
mosis. In  this  case  the  soluble  substances  are  taken  from 
dilute  solutions  and  heaped  up,  the  concentration  steadily 
increasing  until  it  exceeds  that  of  the  surrounding  fluids  suf- 
ficiently to  conquer  the  resistance  of  the  cell  wall  and  extend 
it.  The  source  of  osmotic  force  thus  really  lies  in  the  vital 
activity  of  the  tonoplasts  which  produce  the  required  con- 
centration; the  solution  within  the  vacuole  is  only  the 
means  of  transferring  this  force  upon  the  processes  of 
turgidity. 

Pulsating  vacuoles,  especially  those  of  Euglena,  are  per- 
haps the  most  demonstrative  instances  of  the  living  condi- 
tion of  the  tonoplasts,  and  numerous  authors  have  thor- 
oughly studied  their  movements. 

The  life-history  of  these  tonoplasts  has  gained  a  new 
and  most  attractive  chapter  by  the  discovery,  made  recently 
by  Stomps,  of  the  part  they  take  in  the  mechanism  of  nuclear 
division.  Until  a  short  time  ago,  the  most  fantastic  views 
concerning  this  mechanism  prevailed,  but  Stomps  has  shown 
that  almost  the  whole  process  may  be  easily  explained  by 

[6123 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

simply  assuming  that  the  same  properties  and  forces  are  at 
work  in  the  nuclei  that  we  know  to  be  active  in  the  tono- 
plasts. At  the  time  when  division  is  almost  terminated  and 
the  daughter-nuclei  pass  over  into  the  resting  condition,  the 
chromosomes  themselves  are  changed  into  a  reticular  condi- 
tion. This  change  is  prefaced  by  the  appearance  of  small 
vacuoles  within  them.  They  may  be  seen  lying  in  a  longi- 
tudinal line  in  the  midst  of  the  chromosome.  In  increasing, 
they  push  the  chromatic  substances  asunder  until  they  are 
reduced  to  knots  and  points  in  the  angles  between  the  vacu- 
oles, thus  producing  the  foamy  or  reticular  condition.  Every 
single  chromosome  is  thus  changed  into  a  net,  and  the  whole 
nucleus  is  only  the  combination  of  the  sundry  nets,  the  net 
being  nothing  else  than  the  optical  section  of  the  foam.  The 
outer  parts  of  the  outer  layer  of  all  these  small  vacuoles  sur- 
round the  mass  of  chromatic  substances  and  are  continuous. 
By  their  confluence  the  membrane  of  the  nucleus,  the  origin 
of  which  was  hitherto  wholly  unknown,  is  produced;  it  dis- 
appears when  the  vacuoles  afterward  contract  and  resume 
their  central  position. 

i\LMOST  all  of  the  points  reviewed  in  this  lecture  are  thor- 
oughly in  need  of  renewed  investigation.  Many  conclusions 
rest  on  too  small  a  number  of  well  observed  facts.  Quite  a 
large  number  of  phenomena,  until  this  time  studied  in  only 
a  few  plants,  may  be  taken  up  in  other  species,  thus  giving 
the  expectation  that  new  sides  of  the  problems  will  come  into 
consideration.  Points  which  it  is  difficult  to  elucidate  for 
some  forms  may  easily  yield  to  examination  in  others.  All 
such  work  should,  however,  be  guided  by  broad  considera- 
tions, starting  from  the  principle  that  the  main  task  of  living 
protoplasm  is  to  change  one  form  of  energy  into  another. 
The  initial  forces  should  in  every  case  be  compared  with 

1:613:] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

the  resulting  ones,  and  the  mechanism  by  which  the  changes 
are  produced  should  be  clearly  explained.  This  mechanism 
is  governed  by  the  hereditary  characters  of  the  species  in 
question,  and,  from  this  point  of  view,  will  escape  our  analy- 
sis for  a  long  time  to  come.  But,  apart  from  this  highest  of 
all  problems,  so  much  remains  to  be  done,  that  the  study 
of  the  cytoplasm  outside  of  the  nucleus  well  deserves  to  claim 
the  interest  of  a  great  number  of  investigators. 


n^H] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


Fourth  Lecture 
THE  IDEALS  OF  AN  EXPERIMENT  GARDEN i 


THE  future  of  the  human  race  depends,  in  a  large  mea- 
sure, on  the  improvement  of  our  food-stuffs.  Our 
present  crops  do  not  produce  what  they  might  if  better 
cared  for,  nor  what  they  will  obviously  be  required  to  do 
a  relatively  short  time  hence.  The  population  of  the 
whole  world  is  rapidly  increasing— far  more  rapidly  than 
the  production  of  even  the  first  material  necessities  of  life. 
Ten  years  ago  Sir  William  Crookes  pointed  out  that  the  pro- 
duction of  wheat,  although  regularly  increasing,  gradually 
falls  back  when  compared  with  the  fast-growing  demand  of 
the  continually  augmenting  population  of  the  earth.  After 
half  a  century,  perhaps  earlier,  it  will  not  be  possible  to 
supply  the  necessary  food  with  our  present  agricultural 
plants  and  our  now  prevailing  methods  of  culture.  Life  will 
become  difficult,  the  struggle  for  life  will  become  more  and 
more  intense. 

Of  late,  Herbert  J.  Webber,  in  a  strongly  convincing  arti- 
cle, has  emphasized  the  same  argument.  Although  there  is 
no  immediate  concern,  since  the  world  will  comfortably  sup- 
port a  much  larger  population,  the  future  of  our  race  is  in 
obvious  danger  from  the  wasteful  methods  now  employed 
in  the  utilization  of  the  world's  resources.  Forests  and 
mineral  deposits  are  slowly  disappearing.  The  easily  avail- 
able coal-beds  are  almost  exhausted;  more  coal  will  have  to 
be  sought  for  at  far  greater  depths,  or  perhaps  under  the 
bottom  of  the  ocean.  All  sources  of  supply  are  rapidly 
diminishing.     Of  all  these,  the  main  ones  are  our  agricul- 

^A  popular  lecture,  illustrated  with  many  lantern  slides,  delivered  under 
the  auspices  of  the  Rice  Institute,  at  the  Majestic  Theater,  Houston,  as  a  part 
of  the  programme  of  the  opening  festival. 

1:6^5] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

tural  plants,  and  these,  fortunately,  are  capable  of  a  high 
degree  of  improvement  which  may  enable  them  to  answer  to 
the  increasing  demands  for  a  very  long  time. 

In  the  United  States  one  half  of  the  soil  is  now  being  cul- 
tivated, and  only  half  of  this  is  really  improved  land.  It 
is  true  that  the  aridity  of  the  other  parts  and  the  difficulty 
of  irrigation  are  the  main  causes  of  this  condition;  but  if  we 
could  produce  a  sufficient  number  of  varieties  that  would 
yield  paying  crops  in  the  arid  regions,  a  most  desirable  prog- 
ress  would  be  secured. 

Considerations  of  this  kind  are  going  far  to  place  the  im- 
provement of  agricultural  plants  in  the  foreground  of  public 
interest.  The  aims  and  methods  of  this  improvement  are, 
however,  twofold.  The  first  necessity  is  to  make  better 
yielding  or  more  resistant  or  specially  adapted  races  out  of 
our  present  crops,  and  to  increase  their  production  by  this 
means,  year  by  year.  This  is  the  task  of  the  agricultural 
experiment  stations,  and  good  work  is  being  done  on  a  large 
scale  in  this  line  all  over  the  cultivated  world. 

This  plant  improvement  is  based  on  two  generally  recog- 
nized principles.  One  is  the  selection  of  elementary  species, 
and  the  other  is  hybridizing.  All  of  the  great  crops,  such  as 
corn,  cotton,  tobacco,  wheat,  rice,  and  almost  all  others, 
consist  of  impure  races,  of  mixtures  of  better  and  minor 
varieties,  of  sharply  distinguishable  forms,  some  of  which 
are  far  more  promising  than  others  as  to  yield,  degree  of 
resistance,  adaptation  to  different  soils  and  climates,  etc. 
Selection  consists  in  the  choice  and  isolation  of  such  types, 
in  the  estimation  of  their  worth  under  given  conditions,  and 
in  the  multiplying  of  their  seed  in  order  to  produce  new 
and  valuable  commercial  races. 

The  elementary  forms  are  very  numerous  in  almost  all 
of  the  old  races,  often  coming  up  to  a  hundred  and  more. 

c:6i6] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

But  it  is  obvious  that  their  number  is  limited,  and  that  as 
soon  as  all  of  the  best  ones  have  been  isolated,  this  source 
of  improvement  must  become  exhausted. 

Exactly  the  same  thing  is  the  case  with  hybridizing.  It 
consists  in  the  combination  of  the  valuable  characters  of  dif- 
ferent varieties  and  species  into  one  and  the  same  plant.  If 
properly  conducted,  constant  commercial  races  may  be  de- 
riv^ed  from  such  crosses,  and  some  of  our  best  wheats,  many 
kinds  of  grapes,  and  a  large  number  of  other  agricultural 
plants  owe  their  origin  to  the  application  of  this  principle. 

But  it  is  evident  that  here  also,  some  day,  a  limit  must 
be  reached.  It  may  last  fifty  years,  perhaps  a  century  or 
more,  but  in  the  end  all  or  almost  all  of  the  valuable  hybrids 
which  can  be  made  will  have  been  produced.  Nothing  really 
new  Is  acquired:  it  is  only  new  combinations  of  given  quali- 
ties, and  to  such  work  there  must  always  come  an  end. 

Resuming  this  discussion,  we  may  say  that  selection  and 
hybridizing,  which  are  our  present  means  of  improving  ag- 
ricultural plants,  are  both,  from  their  very  nature,  limited 
methods.  They  find  their  ultimate  barrier  in  the  giv^en 
qualities  of  the  existing  races :  on  the  one  hand,  in  the  limited 
number  of  useful  types  In  their  mixtures;  on  the  other,  in 
the  limited  number  of  possible  combinations  of  the  now 
existing  qualities  In  allied  forms. 

Or,  In  one  word,  they  are  both  based  on  the  principle  of 
exhausting  the  present  possibilities. 

What  are  our  descendants  to  do  when  the  end  has  been 
reached?  The  demands  of  the  population  will  in  all  proba- 
bility go  on  Increasing  rapidly,  and  the  agriculturist  will  find 
It  Impossible  to  keep  pace  with  them.  No  doubt  most  of 
you  will  answer  that  the  present  work  of  Improvement  may 
last  for  one  or  two  centuries,  or  even  more,  and  that  there- 
fore the  question  is  of  no  immediate  concern. 

1:617] 


h 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Doubtless  this  is  true  so  far  as  practice  goes.  Practice 
may  leave  this  side  of  the  problem  to  science,  but  the  duty 
of  science  is  to  foresee  the  coming  necessities  and  to  develop 
its  methods  in  such  a  way  as  to  be  able  to  provide  the  means 
of  answering  them  as  soon  as  they  are  felt  in  practical  life. 

Opposed  to  the  necessities  of  the  present  time,  which  only 
ask  for  the  exhausting  of  present  possibilities,  science  has  to 
provide  the  means  of  answering  to  the  future  necessities  of 
mankind,  or,  shortly,  to  prepare  future  possibilities. 

Here  we  must  direct  our  eyes  to  the  instruction  which 
nature  is  giving  us.  Plants  and  animals  have  not  always 
been  the  same  on  this  earth.  From  the  lowest  forms  they 
have  gradually  developed  to  their  present  high  condition. 
We  must  try  to  learn  to  imitate  the  work  of  nature  on  this 
line  of  improvement.  It  is  definitely  without  limits.  It  has 
proceeded  without  interruption  through  millions  of  years, 
and  has  not  yet  come  to  rest.  We  must  study  the  laws  of 
this  great  process  in  order  to  find  the  means  of  guiding  it 
in  the  directions  which  will  answer  the  future  demands  of 
humanity.  By  doing  so  we  may  discover  how  to  produce 
still  more  useful  races  when  selection  and  hybridizing  shall 
have  been  exhausted. 

Such  are,  to  my  mind,  the  high  ideals  of  a  scientific  experi- 
ment garden;  and  it  is  among  the  duties  of  our  universities 
and  scientific  institutes  to  erect  and  maintain  such  gardens 
for  the  enlargement  of  our  present  field  of  knowledge  and 
the  future  benefit  of  practical  agriculture  and  industry. 

In  producing  new  forms,  nature  proceeds  by  small  leaps 
and  bounds,  or  mutations,  as  they  are  now  usually  called. 
Many  of  these,  of  course,  are  required  in  order  to  pro- 
duce something  strikingly  new;  but  a  few,  and  even  often 
only  one  of  them,  may  be  sufllcient  to  secure  an  appreciable 
amelioration  in  our  agricultural  crops.    Therefore  we  wish 

[6183 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

to  know,  in  the  first  place,  how  these  leaps  and  bounds  are 
being  produced,  and,  in  the  second  instance,  how  we  may 
govern  and  guide  them. 

Thus  the  first  aim  of  the  work  is  only  to  repeat  these 
mutations.  Such  a  repetition  will  unveil  to  us  the  laws  of  the 
process  and  be  our  guide  in  all  future  work.  This  first  step 
has  now  been  made,  although  provisionally  only  and  in  a 
small  number  of  cases.  But  in  all  such  lines  of  work  the 
beginning  is  the  most  difficult  step,  and  so  we  may  confidently 
hope  that  other  steps  will  follow,  and  that  the  end  may  be 
reached  before  the  time  when  practical  life  will  urgently  ask 
for  new  methods  of  producing  the  necessary  supply  of  food- 
stuffs. 

For  about  twenty-five  years  these  ideals  have  guided  the 
work  in  the  experimental  garden  of  the  University  of  Am- 
sterdam. I  shall  now  try  to  show  you,  by  means  of  lantern 
slides,  first,  the  arrangement  of  this  garden  and  its  different 
tools  for  the  work;  secondly,  those  plants  in  which  I  have 
succeeded  in  repeating  such  mutations  as  they  themselves,  or 
their  nearest  allies,  are  known  to  produce  in  nature;  thirdly, 
some  others  which  are  among  the  next  to  be  tried  in  this 
respect;  and,  in  the  last  place,  a  group  of  plants  which  pro- 
duce mutations  every  year  and  in  a  relatively  large  number, 
thereby  supplying  us  with  most  desirable  material  for  con- 
tinued study  in  this  most  interesting  field  of  scientific  inquiry. 

Hugo  de  Vries. 


n6i93 


I 


PHILOSOPHICAL  LANDMARKS 

BEING  A  SURVEY  OF  THE  RECENT  GAINS  AND  THE 
PRESENT  PROBLEMS  OF  REFLECTIVE 

THOUGHT! 


First  Lecture 

WHEN  John  Milton  wrote  the  ''Areopagitica"  and 
predicted  the  future  greatness  of  the  English  people, 
that  people  had  staked  Its  life  upon  Its  liberty,  and  was  In 
danger  of  losing  It.  It  was  In  the  midst  of  the  unspeakable 
disasters  of  civil  war.  During  the  centuries  which  have  suc- 
ceeded Milton's  day  the  English  nation  has  never  ceased  to 
struggle  against  obstructions  without  and  obstacles  within.  It 
Is  a  nation  tried  to  Its  uttermost.  But,  on  the  whole,  and  to 
an  extent  which  Is  rare  In  human  affairs,  Its  history  has  veri- 
fied the  vision  of  the  poet.  Its  prosperity  In  all  matters  of 
lasting  worth  has  been  very  great.  It  has  borne  well  the 
weight  of  Its  responsibilities,  and.  In  spite  of  Imperfections, 
It  has  so  fulfilled  Its  mission  to  mankind  that  though  Eng- 
land, like  Israel,  Greece,  and  Rome,  were  now  to  perish.  It 
would,  like  them,  remain  for  the  human  race  a  precious  pos- 
session forever. 

It  may  be  profitable  for  you,  whose  nationality  has  also 
''been  welded  not  In  peace  but  In  the  storm  of  battle,"  to  In- 
quire what  was  the  ground  of  the  poet's  assured  confidence 
In  his  country.  What  evidence  lay  there  and  then  before 
him  which  would  justify  his  trust  In  the  destiny  of  his  peo- 
ple?    In  Its  circumstances  there  was  none,  for  these  were 

1  Three  lectures  presented  at  the  inauguration  of  the  Rice  Institute,  by 
Sir  Henry  Jones,  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy  in  the  University  of  Glas- 
gow, and  Hibbert  Lecturer  on  Metaphysics  at  Manchester  College,  Oxford. 

n62o3 


/^ 


y^    Z^;^ 


^ 


0 


^^  /m^ 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

untoward  to  the  last  degree.  It  had  neither  wealth  of  ma- 
terial resources,  nor  greatness  of  population,  nor  weight  of 
armaments,  nor  vast  extent  of  territory.  It  was  a  small  and 
a  poor  people,  without  great  traditions  or  high  rank  among 
the  nations,  and  inhabiting  a  portion  of  a  little  island. 
Yet,  with  rarely  paralleled  political  pride,  Milton  called 
upon  ''the  Lords  and  Commons  of  England  to  consider 
what  Nation  it  was  whereof  they  were,  and  whereof  they 
were  governors,"  so  that  they  might  match  the  greatness  of 
their  trust.  In  doing  so,  he  referred  solely  to  the  intrinsic 
character  of  the  people,  and  indeed  to  one  element  therein. 
He  found  them  "a  nation  pliant  and  prone  to  knowledge." 
They  "prized  the  liberty  to  know^  to  utter  and  to  argue 
freely  according  to  conscience,  above  all  liberties."  It  was 
only  on  this  ground  that  the  nation  seemed  to  the  poet  to  be 
"like  an  eagle  renewing  her  mighty  youth."  In  his  sight  she 
was  first  among  the  nations  of  his  time,  because  she  was  first 
in  her  love  of  truth;  therefore  was  "she  destined  to  be  great 
and  honourable  in  these  later  ages." 

From  one  point  of  view  we  may  say  that  there  was  noth- 
ing new  in  Milton's  attitude.  The  truth  to  which  he  gave 
such  stately  expression  is,  in  fact,  a  truism.  It  is  as  old  as 
man's  first  reflection  upon  his  own  destiny.  Homer  teaches 
it  when  he  makes  the  Greeks  advance  to  battle  in  ordered 
and  silent  ranks,  under  wise  commanders  inspired  by  Athena, 
while  the  Trojans  stream  out  in  a  confused  and  shouting 
mob,  driven  forward  by  Ares,  the  god  who  is  the  embodi- 
ment of  animal  ferocity  and  passion.  This  is  the  conviction 
of  the  wise  in  "all  generations" :  that  if  there  be  any  law  in 
human  affairs  or  any  continuity  in  their  confused  history,  it 
is  that  which  dwells  in  man's  own  soul  and  secures  the  victory 
of  the  ordering  intelligence  and  the  disciplined  will  over  the 
blind  forces  that  operate  in  his  world. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

But  from  another  point  of  view  the  attitude  of  Milton 
may  be  called  unique  and  even  surprising.  Stern  moralist  as 
he  was,  and  a  spirit  which  was  devoted  to  the  service  of  the 
Highest,  we  should  have  expected  him  to  dwell  first  upon  the 
ethical  or  the  religious  conditions  of  a  nation's  welfare.  But 
it  is  its  "proneness  and  pliancy  to  know^ledge,"  and  the  store 
it  set  upon  the  liberty  to  know,  to  which  he  assigns  the  high- 
est value  and  the  first  importance. 

Had  he  lived  in  our  day,  we  should  have  reduced  the  sig- 
nificance of  his  mission  and  called  him  an  "intellectualist"; 
for  w&  are  prone  to  prize  faith  in  some  domains,  and  practice 
in  others,  above  knowledge,  and  to  regard  ''truth"  as  mere 
means  to  a  further  good.     I  believe,  however,  that  Milton 
spoke  well  and  wisely.     "The  liberty  to  know"  is  in  fact 
greater  than  all  other  liberties;  for  it  is  their  condition. 
Man  cannot  enter  into  his  inheritance,  whether  that  inheri- 
tance be  natural  or  spiritual,  except  through  this  door.    As 
the  beauty  of  the  natural  scene  is  there  only  to  the  seeing  eye, 
so  the  utilities  of  Nature's  forces  and  the  treasury  of  her 
resources  are  open  only  to  him  who  can  comprehend  them; 
and  the  obligations  which  are  also  the  opportunities  of  man's 
moral  achievement  exist  only  for  him  who  adopts  them  as 
the  convictions  of  his  own  mind  and  the  purposes  of  his  own 
will.     Efficient  practice,  whether  on  the  minutest  or  on  the 
widest  scale,  rests  upon  clear  and  relevant  knowledge.    It  Is 
as  necessary  to  the  artisan  in  handling  his  tools  as  it  is  to  a 
statesman  guiding  the  affairs  of  a  nation.    The  fact  which  is 
not  comprehended  is  an  outer  necessity  which  limits  man's 
freedom,  frustrating  his  intelligence  and  obstructing  his  will. 
The  discoveries  and  inventions  of  modern  science  In  all  their 
wide  range,  and  man's  whole  progress  in  civilization,  bear 
witness  to  this  truth:  it  is  the  intelligence  of  man  which  alone 

[622] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

can  emancipate  him.  His  charter  of  freedom  is  inscribed  in 
her  own  soul. 

Now  it  is  the  main  characteristic  of  our  time  that  It  has,  at 
least  in  one  great  department,  laid  this  lesson  well  to  heart. 
We  consider  no  labor  too  severe  or  continued,  no  equipment 
too  costly,  which  promises,  by  means  of  the  natural  sciences, 
to  secure  more  Intimate  communion  between  the  reason  of 
man  and  the  reason  which  is  embedded  In  the  physical  order. 
It  Is  only  in  this  way  that  we  can  bring  its  powers  to  our  will. 
We  have  learned  that  the  iron-hearted  mechanism  of  nature, 
which  were  It  not  for  man's  rational  endowment  would  en- 
tangle him  in  its  vast  scheme,  can  by  means  of  his  under- 
standing of  it  be  changed  into  the  rich  possession  of  his  mind 
and  the  instrument  of  his  will.  Its  unchangeable  and  in- 
exorable laws,  seized  by  way  of  their  meaning,  are  made  to 
minister  to  his  purposes  and  to  express  his  spontaneity.  By 
means  of  knowledge  man  stands  a  sovereign  among  the 
natural  powers,  and  he  is  free,  not  in  their  despite,  but  by 
their  help,  for  they  enlarge  the  scope  of  his  effective  will. 

This,  indeed,  is  the  ultimate  and  by  far  the  most  significant 
consequence  of  man's  intelligent  converse  with  the  outer 
world,  the  greatest  of  all  the  gifts  of  the  natural  sciences  to 
mankind.  But  it  is  not  that  which  has  attracted  our  atten- 
tion. As  a  rule,  we  trace  the  influence  of  the  theoretical  dis- 
coveries of  science  no  further  than  the  practical  inventions  in 
which  they  result;  and  if  we  discern,  we  do  not  reflectively 
consider,  the  manner  In  which  they  recoil  upon  man  himself. 
The  achievement  upon  which  in  this  age  we  justly  pride  our- 
selves Is  the  Interpretation  of  Nature's  laws,  and  our  conse- 
quent sway  over  her  energies.  We  seek  little  more,  and  we 
look  no  further,  as  a  rule.  We  forget  that  It  is  the  indirect, 
the  remote,  the  unexpected  and  unsought  consequences  of 
man's  actions  which  mean  most.    It  is  a  law  of  his  life,  and  a 

1:6233 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

symbol  of  the  generosity  of  the  scheme  within  which  he  lives, 
that  he  always  builds  more  wisely  than  he  knows.  He  is 
guided  unconsciously  as  by  an  architectonic  mind,  which 
comprehends  him  and  his  environment,  and  whose  purposes 
he  cannot  guess  until  he  beholds  them  accomplished. 

It  is  my  purpose  to  call  your  attention  to  this  aspect  of  the 
scientific  enterprise  which  you  are  so  auspiciously  inaugurat- 
ing here  to-day.  I  would  fain  indicate  the  manner  in  which 
the  natural  sciences,  for  which  you  are  making  your  most 
generous  provision,  must  not  only  extend  your  mastery  over 
the  outer  world,  but  reverberate  within  your  inner  selves,  en- 
riching and  enlarging  the  powers  of  your  rational  nature. 

When  man's  thought  sets  free  the  forces  of  the  open 
world,  these  take  up  his  deeds  and  carry  them  forward  to 
issues  which  he  cannot  clearly  foresee,  and  yet  which  he  dare 
not  leave  unconsidered.  For  these  also  yield  their  best  gifts 
only  to  the  spirit  which  can  at  once  obey  and  control  them; 
and  neither  the  obedience  nor  the  control  is  possible  except 
in  the  measure  in  which  they  are  comprehended. 

This  consequence  is  seen  to  follow  the  moment  we  discern 
what  takes  place  when  man  acquires  knowledge  of  any 
obiect.  It  is  that  the  nature  of  mind  is  itself  exhibited  in  the 
process.  He  cannot  enter  into  closer  communion  with  the 
natural  world  by  means  of  the  sciences  without  at  the  same 
time  both  manifesting  and  realizing  the  powers  of  his  own 
soul.  Mind,  like  every  other  form  of  energ>%  natural  and 
spiritual,  shows  what  it  is  in  what  it  does.  It  exhibits  itself 
in  its  operations.  It  is  by  matching  his  intellectual  power 
against  the  world  and  forcing  its  obdurate  facts  to  yield  their 
meaning  that  he  reveals  the  splendor  of  his  rational  endow- 
ment. Could  we  have  known  the  potencies  which  slumber 
within  him,  if  we  could  have  known  his  mind  and  his  ways  of 
life  when  the  phenomena  of  nature,  instead  of  being  open  to 

[624] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

his  thought  and  subservient  to  his  will,  were  nothing  more 
than  objects  of  fear  and  wonder?  Or  is  it  not  true,  rather, 
that  the  process  by  which  he  has  gradually  withdrawn  the 
veil  from  the  face  of  nature  and  brought  to  light  order 
among  its  contingencies,  is  the  same  in  its  other  and  great 
aspect  as  the  process  of  the  self-revelation  of  his  own  spirit? 
For  knowledge  comes  neither  from  mind  nor  from  its  object, 
but  from  both.  It  is  neither  a  posteriori  nor  a  priori,  be- 
cause it  is  both  the  one  and  the  other,  and  that  always. 
Truth  is  neither  unveiled  by  man,  nor  is  it  given  to  him 
ready-made.  It  is,  In  every  Item  of  it,  the  result  of  the  inter- 
action of  mind  and  its  object.  Light  springs  from  the  Impact 
of  spirit  and  nature.  Nay,  as  we  shall  see  more  fully  here- 
after, these  imply  each  other,  they  are  elements  in  one 
scheme,  opposed  but  complementary  aspects  of  the  one  real- 
ity.   And  it  is  only  In  their  unity  that  they  have  significance, 

value,  or  use. 

I  do  not  anticipate  any  contradiction  when  I  say  that  the 
greatest  and  by  far  the  most  significant  of  all  the  conse- 
quences of  man's  triumphant  progress  In  his  comprehension 
of  the  physical  cosmos  is  the  light  which  that  process  has 
thrown  upon  man  himself.  But  its  full  meaning  can  be  seen 
only  when  we  consider  another  and  a  still  remoter  conse- 
quence. Man's  more  Intimate  communion  with  nature  by 
means  of  natural  science  has  brought  him  into  closer  com- 
munion with  his  fellows.  Seeking  no  such  end,  the  sciences 
have  made  men,  throughout  the  civilized  world,  members  of 
one  another.  They  have  broken  down  man's  isolation,  re- 
futed his  egoism  even  when  it  leaves  him  selfish,  made  him 
independent  whether  they  will  or  no,  welded  their  interests 
together,  and  constituted  them  Into  organs  of  a  vast  whole 
to  which  they  give  and  from  which  they  borrow  all  the 
elements  of  their  larger  life.     Within  It  they  find  their  In- 

[625] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

dividual  functions;  and,  seeking  their  own  ends,  they  never- 
theless constitute  a  vast,  complex,  and  single  whole  whose 
elements  collaborate  even  when  they  conflict,  and  whose 
power  for  all  human  purposes  no  man  can  measure. 

The  first  revelation  of  the  potencies  which  slumbered  in 
man's  spirit  was  made  when  the  reason  within  him  succeeded 
in  holding  rational  communion  with  the  reason  that  is  em- 
bedded in  the  physical  cosmos.  But  this  second  revelation  is 
greater.  We  can  see  his  powers  in  the  fullness  of  their 
might  when  he  is  thus  united  in  one  scheme  with  his  fellows, 
and  spirit  communes  face  to  face  with  spirit.  Then  is  the 
range  of  his  personality  in  truth  extended,  and  the  reach  of 
his  mind  and  will.  The  blacksmith  at  his  forge,  like  the 
thinker  in  his  study,  is  seen  to  serve  and  to  be  served  by  the 
interchanging  enterprises  of  the  general  mind  of  his  times. 
For  it  is  no  flight  of  rhetoric,  but  the  simple  truth,  to  say  that 
our  Interests  now  are  cosmopolitan.  This  is  Illustrated  In 
the  common  ways  of  our  daily  life:  In  the  food  we  eat,  the 
clothes  we  wear,  and  the  tools  we  use.  The  same  change 
which  has  passed  over  the  face  of  nature  has  passed  over  the 
spirit  of  man.  Science  is  translating  facts  into  instances  of 
universal  laws.  It  is  tearing  facts  out  of  their  seeming  isola- 
tion. It  Is  revealing  them  as  temporary  resting-places  of 
unresting  energies,  momentary  combinations  of  forces  which 
have  come  from  the  beginning  of  things  and  are  moving  on- 
ward on  an  endless  way.  Nature  is  no  longer  an  aggregate 
of  disconnected  facts,  or  the  scene  of  contingent  happenings. 
It  is  the  realm  of  concrete  universal  laws.  These  have  not 
supplanted  the  facts,  it  is  true,  nor  arrested  the  happenings; 
but  they  have  illumined  them,  showing  that  they  are  the  mere 
foci  of  the  world's  unresting  energies. 

But  the  universal  in  nature  is  at  once  the  offspring  and  the 
parent  of  the  universal  In  man ;  so  that  he  too,  by  the  indirect 

[626] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

influence  of  the  sciences,  Is  being  reinterpreted  and  regen- 
erated. Man  remains,  It  is  true,  and  must  remain,  a  unique 
personality.  To  the  end  he  will  maintain  his  subjective  in- 
tegrity and  inviolable  privacy;  he  will  look  upon  the  wide 
world  through  his  own  most  Individual  thought,  and  act  upon 
it  from  the  secret  depths  of  his  own  most  exclusive  will.  But 
the  thought  and  the  will  which  are  his  own  and  exclusive  are 
capable  of  a  wide  comprehension.  He  is  also  being  revealed 
as  an  individuated  organ  of  a  vast  whole.  He  is  the  intense 
because  the  self-conscious  focus  of  the  meaning  and  the  use 
of  the  world.  He  is  a  pulse-throb  of  a  universal  mind  which 
sustains  the  natural  order,  and  operates  in  him,  through  him, 
by  him,  and,  I  believe,  for  him.  And  this  discovery,  it  seems 
to  me,  is  the  crowning  achievement  of  the  modern  age.  Its 
interest  in  the  meaning  of  the  outer  world,  and  the  conse- 
quent conversion  of  its  forces  Into  man's  ministrants,  have, 
without  man's  knowledge  or  purposed  seeking,  begun  the  in- 
tegration of  humanity,  and  set  It  forth  on  an  adventure  more 
generous  In  Its  promise  than  he  can  compass  by  his  freest 

thoughts. 

Now  it  has  seemed  to  me  that  if  a  votary  of  philosophy 
has  any  mission  among  you  to-day,  it  is  to  Invite  your  atten- 
tion for  a  little  to  this  vaster  and  remoter  realm  of  the  con- 
sequences of  devoting  your  thoughts  In  this  institution  to  the 
discovery  of  nature's  secrets.  For  every  truth  attained 
breaks  out  Into  a  new  problem  demanding  a  new  solution; 
every  practical  achievement  brings  Into  It  a  new  task;  and 
every  goal  of  spirit  Is  a  point  of  departure  on  new  adven- 
tures. And  It  is  the  peculiar  task  of  philosophy  to  suggest 
to  the  minds  of  men  the  regions  not  yet  conquered  and  the 
Inheritance  not  yet  gained  and  secured. 

The  main  outlines  of  our  next  adventure  are  becoming 
obvious.     It  is  to  comprehend  the  laws  according  to  which 

[6273 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

this  new  world  of  the  interconnected  wills  of  men  must  oper- 
ate. The  demand  for  knowledge— for  knowledge  that  is 
systematic,  tried,  and  secure— of  this  world  of  man  is  al- 
ready felt  to  be  urgent  in  some  directions.  I  presume  that 
there  is  no  maker  or  seller  of  material  things  among  you 
who  does  not  know  that  if  he  is  to  secure  his  own  economical 
w^ell-being,  he  must  know  something  of  the  world's  mind  and 
be  able  to  interpret  and  anticipate  its  wants.  This  problem 
is  infinitely  more  complex,  and  the  risks  of  error  are  incal- 
culably greater  than  they  were  when  human  society  consisted 
of  small,  isolated,  simple,  self-centered  and  self-supporting 
units.  His  success  or  his  failure  in  his  business  enterprises 
comes  upon  him  from  the  ends  of  the  w^orld,  and  he  must 
widen  the  range  of  his  purposes. 

But  what  applies  to  the  economic  phase  of  our  modern  life 
applies  in  like  manner  to  all  its  elements.  Control  can  come 
only  by  the  way  of  comprehension,  and  forces  which  we  do 
not  understand  are  inexhaustible  sources  of  risks  and  sur- 
prises. And  who  comprehends  the  social  forces  of  these 
times?  All  the  civilized  nations  of  the  world  exhibit  the 
same  phenomena.  We  have  emancipated  the  people;  we 
have  awakened  their  sense  of  their  rights;  we  have  multi- 
plied their  wants  and  extended  the  range  of  their  desires; 
and,  in  one  word,  we  have  ushered  in  what  we  can  hardly  do 
more  than  name  and  fear— namely.  Democracy.  It  is  a  thing 
which  is  to  be  its  own  law ;  it  is  to  walk  in  the  light  of  its  own 
convictions;  it  is  to  map  out  the  lines  of  its  own  welfare;  it  is 
to  repudiate  every  authority,  political,  moral,  or  religious, 
which  wears  a  despotic  face;  it  must  issue  its  own  impera- 
tives, and  every  appeal  is  to  itself  alone. 

The  greatest  discovery  ever  made  by  man  was  made  by 
the  Greeks  when,  cutting  themselves  free  from  the  traditions 
of  the  ancient  world,  they  alighted  upon  the  conception  of  a 

[628] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

civil  state  where  citizens  should  be  free.  The  most  momen- 
tous experiment  of  mankind  is  that  of  carrying  out  their  con- 
ception to  its  ultimate  consequence  in  a  true  democracy.  But 
that  experiment,  conducted  among  the  elemental  powers  of 
man's  world  and  involving  all  the  major  issues  of  his  wel- 
fare, is  carried  on  in  the  bewildering  twilight  of  mere  opin- 
ion. First,  appearances  are  taken  for  facts;  there  is  little 
inquiry,  and  there  is  less  logic  or  method.  The  democracies 
of  the  world,  guided  by  no  prophetic  seer  and  possessing 
little  light  of  their  own,  are  stumbling  along  an  untried  and 
unknown  way  to  an  unimagined  goal.  They  are  convinced 
of  their  illusions  only  by  suffering  their  consequences,  and 
they  discover  the  truth  only  by  exhausting  the  possibilities  of 
error.  It  is  a  costly  method  and  an  insecure  one.  Universal 
unrest  verging  constantly  toward  conflict  characterizes  all 
their  ways. 

I  do  not  think  that  we  can  trust  this  method  much  longer. 
The  need  for  self-comprehension  is  becoming  urgent.  The 
risks  of  ignoring  the  problems  of  the  general  life  of  man  are 
growing  greater  as  the  democracies  wax  in  magnitude  and 
strength,  assert  themselves  with  less  and  less  reserve,  and 
are  less  and  less  patient  of  restraint.  And,  moreover,  a  fun- 
damental discrepancy  has  arisen  between  the  inner  or  self- 
conscious  life  of  recent  times  and  its  outward  circumstances. 
Man's  knowledge  and  control  of  himself  have  fallen  out  of 
step  with  his  knowledge  and  control  of  his  physical  environ- 
ment. In  the  case  of  the  latter  the  boundaries  of  the  nations 
are  overleapt  and  the  exclusiveness  of  their  individualism  is 
multiplied.  Scientific  know^ledge  and  inventions  and  the  vast 
economic  resources  which  issue  from  them  are  objects  of  cos- 
mopolitan interchange.  But  our  ethical  temperament  has 
received  no  such  enlargement  or  emancipation,  and  is  still 
narrow    and    class-tainted    and   parochial.      And   this    dis- 

[629] 


:\ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

crepancy  will  bring  its  penalties.  Have  you  ever  known  any 
Instance  of  incongruence  between  the  Inner  and  outer  con- 
ditions of  a  nation's  life  which  has  not  been  fraught  with 
peril?  It  is  this  cause  which  divides  a  nation  against  itself 
and  constrains  it  to  have  recourse  to  the  violent  remedy  of 
revolution.  A  reinterpreted  world  is  a  reconstructed  world. 
It  propounds  new  problems  for  man.  And  they  are  like  the 
riddles  of  the  Sphinx:  they  must  be  answered  on  pain  of 
death;  they  have  no  answer  except  Man  himself. 

Surveying  the  modern  situation  as  a  whole,  what  is  it, 
then,  that  we  see  ?    It  is  the  vast  extent  of  the  domain  which 
the  physical  sciences  have  conquered  within  so  brief  a  period 
of  the  history  of  the  human  race  that  it  seems  but  the  hour  of 
the  dawn;  the  great  army  of  explorers  in  every  civilized  land, 
equipped  with  every  instrument  which  can  aid  their  search, 
who  are  year  by  year  and  almost  day  by  day  pressing  its 
boundaries  further;  the  growing  marvel  of  the  practical  In- 
ventions which  follow  hard  upon  the  theoretic  discoveries; 
the  utilities,  latent  from  the  beginning  of  time  In  the  struc- 
ture of  the  physical  world,  which  these  inventions  are  setting 
free ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  the  inexhaustible  variety  and 
unconfined  range  of  man's  wants  and  desires  which  all  these 
things  have  called  Into  existence,  and  which  are  clamorous  for 
satisfaction;  the  complex,  restless,  tumultuous,  and  yet  un- 
ruled world  of  Industry  and  commerce  which  has  been  welded 
together  and  is  designed  to  meet  these  wants;  the  consequent 
integration  of  mankind  into  organized  communities;  the  rise 
of  the  great  order  of  national,  political  states  which  arc 
themselves  but  organs  of  a  still  wider  humanity,  all  of  them 
from  time  to  time  disturbed  and  occasionally  well-nigh  dis- 
traught by  the  economic  and  social  collisions  of  their  ele- 
ments.   Such  are  the  results  which  we  must  attribute  mainly 
to  the  devotion  and  the  triumphant  progress  of  modern 

[630] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

science.  Guided  and  inspired  by  them,  the  multitudinous  ac- 
tivities of  Individual  minds  and  wills,  each  of  them  perma- 
nently set  upon  its  own  personal  ends,  have  put  together  a 
vast  social  structure  with  almost  as  httle  conscious  purpose 
as  that  which  guides  the  coral  insects  building  their  reefs 
amid  the  ocean's  waves.  That  structure  has  Its  own  laws  of 
being  and  ways  of  operating,  and  these  are  as  remorseless  as 
the  laws  of  the  physical  cosmos.  But  I  believe  that  they  are 
as  beneficent,  too,  provided  they  are  understood.  How, 
then,  can  we  doubt  that  man  must  fit  himself  for  this  new 
world  which  he  has  called  Into  being,  or  that  In  order  to  do 
so  he  must  go  forth  on  a  new  adventure?  It  Is  not  only  that 
of  comprehending  the  physical  world  and  employing  its 
energies,  but  of  comprehending  the  master-power  which  Is 
the  cause  of  the  great  change.  Side  by  side  with  the  sciences 
of  Nature,  the  sciences  of  man  must  arise.  Man  must  come 
back  to  himself,  contemplating  the  mystery  of  his  own  spirit, 
for  In  it  is  the  key  of  the  final  enigma  of  the  world. 

But  this  Is  the  specific  venture  of  Philosophy,  and  Philos- 
ophy has  fallen  into  disrepute.  So  scanty  has  been  the  har- 
vest of  her  long  toil,  as  compared  with  that  which  the  natural 
sciences  have  brought  triumphantly  home,  that  the  general 
mind  of  the  modern  age  would  turn  away  from  her.  Phi- 
losophy, the  mother  of  all  the  sciences,  has  now  to  plead,  and 
even  at  times  to  plead  In  vain,  for  permission  to  erect  a  hum- 
ble lodge  among  the  mansions  of  her  daughters.  We  would 
prize  her  gifts  beyond  all  others,  could  she  but  bring  them 
within  our  reach.  But  we  despair  of  her  powers.  Even  the 
incomplete,  tentative,  errant,  but  slowly  progressive  Inter- 
pretation which  man  alone  can  give  of  any  object,  seems  to 
be  impossible  for  us  when  our  problem  Is  Man.  An  obstacle 
lies  across  the  very  threshold  of  this,  the  most  urgent  as  well 

[630 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

as  the  greatest  of  man's  spiritual  enterprises:  it  is  his  diffi- 
dence when  face  to  face  with  the  mystery  of  his  own  being. 

And,  in  truth,  the  mystery  is  very  great.  Even  his  physical 
structure  is  revealed  by  science  to  be  the  consummation  and 
the  most  complex  epitome  of  the  cosmic  scheme,  and  all  its 
problems  converge  in  him.  And  his  soul,  his  mind,  his  spirit 
is  the  self-conscious  counterpart  of  all  his  world.  He  is  its 
expression,  in  him  brute  force  emerges  into  meaning,  and  its 
reality  takes  upon  itself  the  form  of  truth.  The  complexity 
of  the  problem  is  infinite,  and  the  consciousness  of  Its  magni- 
tude paralyzes  the  Inquiry  of  philosophy. 

Moreover,  when  we  are  dealing  with  spirit  and  Its  mani- 
festations in  any  one  of  the  arts  or  sciences,  or  In  the  most 
complex  social  world  in  which  all  these  are  sustained,  the 
method  which  has  been  so  successful  In  the  Investigation  of 
the  facts  of  the  outer  world  cannot  be  employed,  except  at 
the  greatest  risk  and  under  constant  correction.  The  natural 
sciences  can,  without  much  violence  to  their  object,  distin- 
guish and  even  isolate  its  aspects  and  deal  with  them  sepa- 
rately. But  when  we  leave  the  physical  sphere,  where 
relations  are  relatively  external  and  contingent,  and  ascend 
stage  by  stage  along  the  internal  relations  of  organic  life  to 
the  Intense  unity  of  self-consciousness,  In  which  all  differences 
are  at  once  sustained  and  overcome,  abstraction  becomes 
more  and  more  misleading.  There  every  element  depends 
for  its  being,  function,  and  meaning  upon  the  whole  system  of 
which  It  Is  a  part.  The  problem  of  the  whole  comes  upon 
us  everywhere,  and  it  seems  impossible  to  attain  any  truth 
without  grasping  It  in  its  totality. 

It  follows  that  philosophy  has  no  more  right  to  be 
abstract  than  a  work  of  art,  or  to  be  fragmentary  than  re- 
ligious faith.  Even  the  pragmatlst,  whose  main  mission 
seems  to  be  to  maintain  that  the  world  is,  at  least  in  part,  the 

[6321 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

playground  of  contingencies,  must  make  the  apparently  pre- 
posterous claim  of  pronouncing  upon  its  final  nature  and 
grasping  it  as  a  whole.  He  also  is  "a  spectator  of  all  time 
and  all  existence,"  and  its  condemning  judge. 

And  it  follows  that  even  as  an  outline  the  philosopher's 
version  of  the  universe  of  reality  must  fail,  and  fail  In  every 
way.  Its  principles  are  mere  hypotheses,  and  nothing  is 
fully  demonstrated.  The  application  of  the  hypotheses  to 
facts  is  incomplete  on  every  side;  they  retain  their  secrets, 
remain  enigmatic,  and  they  seem  to  conflict  with  one  another 
and  with  the  system  as  a  whole.  And  the  failure  of  philos- 
ophy, w^hlch  we  might  well  prognosticate  from  the  magnitude 
of  its  task,  seems  to  be  more  than  indorsed  by  Its  troubled 
and  apparently  futile  history.  We  are  driven  to  think  that 
the  enterprise  exceeds  our  powers,  that  there  is  no  resource 
In  reason,  and  that  the  philosopher  must  take  his  seat  among 
humble  men,  and  say,  like  them, 

/  stretch  lame  hands  of  faith  and  grope ^ 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and  call 
To  what  I  feel  is  Lord  of  all, 

And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 

And  man  cannot  set  aside  the  enigma.  He  must  persist  In 
the  attempt.  But  the  question  arises,  Why  do  men  persist  in 
the  attempt?  And  the  wisest  of  men,  why  do  they  not  turn 
aside  from  the  vast  inquiry  and  "cultivate  their  gardens"? 
Can  it  be  that  it  is  impossible  for  them  to  do  so  w^ithout 
violating  their  own  rational  nature?  Is  there  some  necessity 
either  In  man  himself,  or  in  the  nature  of  things,  or  in  both, 
which  he  cannot  escape,  but  which  constrains  him  to  confront 
the  mystery?    Can  he  not  take  refuge  in  his  own  limitations? 

What  reflective  man  is  ignorant  of  the  answer? 

1:6333 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Just  when  ive  are  safest,  there  's  a  sunset-touch, 
A  fancy  from  a  flower-hell,  some  one's  death, 
A  chorus-ending  from  Euripides,— 
And  that 's  enough  for  fifty  hopes  and  fears, 
As  old  and  new  at  once  as  Nature's  self. 
To  rap  and  knock  and  enter  in  our  soul. 
Take  hands  and  dance  there,  a  fantastic  ring. 
Round  the  ancient  idol,  on  his  base  again,— 
The  grand  Perhaps! 

This  fact,  sustained  by  the  experience  of  mankind  always 
and  in  all  ages  when  it  is  at  its  best,  sustained  by  its  despair 
no  less  than  by  its  hopes,  by  its  agnosticism  and  skepticism 
no  less  than  by  its  faith,  leads  us  to  look  again  at  the  adven- 
ture of  philosophy  and  its  assumed  failure.     What  does  it 

mean? 

In  the  first  place,  it  throws  a  fresh  light  upon  the  nature 
of  man.    It  shows  that  he  cannot  escape  the  sense  of  his  in- 
finite  environment.    To  shut  it  out  of  his  mind  were  to  rend 
his  own  spirit  in  twain,  for  it  enters  within.    The  infinite  is 
part  of  the  furniture  of  his  soul.    He  is  like  a  dweller  on  a 
little  island  in  the  midst  of  the  open  ocean,   everywhere 
within  the  sound  of  the  thunder  of  the  breakers.    If  he  en- 
deavors to  satisfy  himself  with  a  narrow  scheme  of  life,  he 
finds  that  he  is  at  war  both  with  himself  and  with  the  nature 
of  things.     He  may  seek  satisfaction,  as  Carlyle  and  many 
others  have  advised,  by  lowering  his  demands  and  limiting 
his  outlook.     His  first  crude  expositions  of  himself  reveal 
within  nothing  but  animal  wants  on  a  large  scale,  and  he 
may  neither  see  nor  desire  to  find  in  the  world  around  any- 
thing  except  that  which  promises  to  stay  their  hunger.^  But 
reflection  enters  if  the  process  of  his  own  rational  life  Is  not 
arrested  within  him,  and  reflection  breaks  down  his  com- 

[6341 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

placency  and  dispels  the  fake  show  of  first  appearances.  His 
spirit  is  launched  forth  on  its  endless  task. 

And  this  is  philosophy.  It  is  not  the  quaint  guest  of  star- 
struck  souls  which  have  forgotten  their  finitude  and  are 
doomed  to  range  along  the  horizon  of  existence,  peering  into 
the  darkness  beyond  and  asking  questions  of  its  emptiness. 
Philosophy  is  the  process  whereby  man,  driven  by  the  neces- 
sities of  his  rational  nature,  corrects  the  abstractions  of  his 
first  sense-steeped  experience,  and  endeavors,  little  by  little, 
to  bring  to  light  and  power  the  real— that  Is,  the  spiritual- 
meaning  of  his  structure  and  of  the  world  In  which  he  lives. 
I  cannot  believe  in  a  destiny  so  cruel  as  to  condemn  man  to 
seek  and  to  return  home  empty.  I  even  venture  to  say  that 
the  quest  is  never  vain. 

It  Is  true  that  philosophy  does  not  reach  its  goal.  If  that 
goal  Is  a  full  and  flawless  and  final  scheme.  But  Is  It? 
Which  of  the  enterprises  of  the  human  spirit  either  has,  or 
ought  to  have,  such  a  consummation?  Not  the  sciences,  not 
any  one  of  the  arts,  not  any  form  of  man's  practical  activi- 
ties. There  Is,  with  regard  to  every  aim  which  he  has  sought 
to  attain,  the  same  Incompleteness,  Imperfection,  and  lack  of 
finality,  and  the  same  ground  for  skepticism  to  seize  upon 
and  condemn  It. 

But,  In  the  next  place,  the  skepticism  which  distrusts  phi- 
losophy Is  Itself  philosophy,  and  a  philosophy  which  has  not 
been  careful  to  examine  Its  own  assumptions.  Let  me  In- 
dicate a  few  of  these  as  we  pass  on  our  way. 

In  the  first  place,  It  Is  evident  that  skepticism  cannot  con- 
demn except  by  reference  to  a  standard  or  criterion,  and  that 
standard  must  Itself  be  capable  of  justification,  whether 
through  carrying  It  within  Itself  or  as  a  means  to  that  which 
does  so.  It  must  itself,  in  fact,  assume  an  Absolute,  and  a 
knowledge  of  it.     That  which  pretends  to  be  true,  even 

[635] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

though  it  be  negative,  bears  within  it  a  reference  to  a  final 
end,  and  in  its  own  place  and  context  to  embody  it.  Hence 
skepticism  cannot  condemn  a  conception  which  it  must  as- 
sume and  use  in  its  condemnation. 

In  the  second  place,  the  criterion  set  up  by  skepticism  is 
not  valid.    Skepticism  places  a  static  goal  for  a  nature  which 
is  through  and  through  dynamic.     It  demands  that  mind 
should  come  to  rest  in  a  knowledge  that  is  final.     But  self- 
consciousness  is  a  process.    To  arrest  its  activity  is  to  extin- 
guish  it.     It  is  active  no  less  in  possessing  than  it  is  m 
achieving  knowledge.    For  knowledge  or  goodness  to  be,  is 
to  be  in  process  of  being  maintained  by  the  active  powers  of 
the  intelligence  and  will:  in  other  words,  the  moment  that 
men  cease  to  think  and  to  will,  these  cease  to  exist.    They 
are  in  process  of  being  continually  produced.    The  whole 
world  of  mind,  like  the  physical  cosmos,  is  the  scene  of  the 
play  of  energies  which  never  rest.    Its  existence  is  its  becom. 
big  ■  it  continues  through  continuous  regeneration,  and  is  ever 
new  as  well  as  always  old.    Both  beginnings  and  endings  are 
fictions.    Man's  mind  lives  and  moves  within  a  self-inclosed 
system  for  which  to  be  is  to  change,  and  probably  also  to 
evolve,  radiating  forever  into  new  splendors.    And  for  man 
to  live  as  spirit  is  to  partake  in  the  process.    It  is  in  some 
other  world  than  that  of  man's  experience  that  the  skeptic 
should  seek  a  reality  that  is  fixed  or  a  perfection  that  is 

In  the  third  place,  skepticism  has  not  only  assumed  for 
mind  an  end  which  contradicts  its  nature,  and  is  on  that  ac- 
count alone  irrational  as  well  as  impossible:  it  has  also  mis- 
construed  the  process  of  knowing.  It  is  represented  as  self- 
defeating.  Instead  of  revealing  the  nature  of  things  as  they 
are,  it  exhibits  them  only  in  their  relation  to  man's  means  of 
knowing  them,  or  as  they  are  reflected  in  the  medium  of  his 

1:636] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

consciousness.  This  is  held  to  distort  them;  so  that  In  strict- 
ness man  does  not  know  real  things,  but  phenomenal  objects. 
Mind  cannot  get  into  actual  touch  with  reality.  It  is  shut  up 
within  a  world  of  appearances;  consciousness  can  deal  with 
its  own  contents  and  see  only  the  pictures  on  Its  own  walls. 
And,  further,  every  attempt  which  philosophy  has  ever  made 
to  establish  a  relation  between  ideas  and  facts,  or  phenomena 
and  real  objects,  has  failed.  And  Its  failure  is  necessary  and 
Inevitable,  for  It  Is  manifestly  Impossible  for  reason  to  estab- 
lish any  relation  between  what  Is  and  what  cannot  be  In 
consciousness.  This  suspicion  of  thought,  "this  disease  of 
subjectivity,"  has  penetrated  deeply  Into  the  modern  mind, 
and  skepticism  has  assumed  many  forms.  It  Is  at  times  the 
positivism  which  affirms  necessary  ignorance  of  final  causes; 
It  Is  at  others  an  agnosticism  which  endeavors  to  stop  short 
of  both  affirmation  and  negation;  It  Is  at  other  times  an  In- 
tultlonlsm  which  on  occasions  and  for  rare  moments  comes 
Into  touch  with  reality  In  a  way  that  Is  Inexplicable  and 
miraculous;  It  is  at  other  times  a  dogmatism  of  either  the  in- 
telligence or  of  the  will  that  Is  a  resolve  to  affirm  when  we 
cannot  know,  a  pragmatism  or  a  pluralism.  In  all  cases  it 
relegates  those  things  which  man  most  desires  to  know  Into 
a  region  which  lies  beyond  the  reach  of  his  Intelligence,  or  It 
attributes  to  subconsciousness,  or  to  mere  feeling,  or  to  mys- 
ticism and  intuition,  what  It  denies  to  the  use  of  man's  ra- 
tional faculties. 

To  deal  with  these  skeptical  assumptions  with  any  fullness 
lies  beyond  my  Immediate  purpose.  But  we  may  observe  In 
passing,  what  Is  obvious,  namely,  that  the  skeptic  cannot  con^ 
demn  all  human  knowledge  without  condemning  his  own. 
His  pronouncement  on  the  nature  of  mind,  the  relativity  of 
Its  processes,  the  phenomenal  character  of  Its  objects,  the 

L6371 


I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

unknowable  nature  of  reality,  must  share  the  fate  of  all 

other  knowledge. 

He  must  choose  between  denying  the  validity  of  all  know- 
ledge  and  affirming  his  own,  and  in  both  cases  alike  his  con- 
clusion is  self-contradictory. 

But,  in  the  next  place,  his  attitude  is  exposed  to  other  ways 
of  refutation  than  that  of  a  mere  argumentiim  ad  hominem 
or  a  tu  quoqtie.    The  skeptic  converts  the  condition  which  is 
necessary  to  knowledge  against  the  possibility  of  knowledge, 
as  if  that  which  constitutes  it  could  also  destroy  it.    No 
doubt  knowledge  is  relative;  that  is  to  say,  it  depends  upon 
the  nature  of  mind  as  well  as  upon  the  nature  of  things.    But 
is  its  relativity  a  defect?    What  would  the  skeptic  have?    Is 
it  a  mind  which  has  no  affinity  with  the  world  of  objects,  or  a 
world  which  is  divorced  from,  and  independent  of,  the  intel- 
ligence?    The  relation  of  things  to  mind  and  of  mind  to 
things  may  be  an  indication  of  the  fundamental  character  of 
both.     Indeed,  there  is  no  attribute  of  the  real  so  indispu- 
table as  that  by  which  it  interacts  with  mind,  and  through 
and  by  and  only  during  that  interaction  exhibits  and  even 
realizes  its  fullness  of  being.    Knowledge,  or  rather  knowing 
—  for  there  is  no  such  ambiguous  reahty  as  "a  world  of 
knowledge"   supposed  to  intervene  between  consciousness 
and  the  facts  with  which  it  deals— ^5  the  interaction  of  mind 
and  things,  and  a  living  intercourse.    And  that  intercourse  is 
direct  and  immediate  even  when  we  form  erroneous  opin- 
ions.     Error  is  the  pathological   activity  of  undeveloped 
minds.     We  borrow  the  whole  contents  of  our  intelligence 
from  the  world  in  which  we  live,  even  our  illusions,  and  we 
can  create  neither  truth  nor  falsehood  out  of  the  emptiness 
of  an  isolated  and  self-closed  mind.    On  the  other  hand,  the 
world  owes  to  reason  alone  the  evidence  of  its  existence  and 
the  expression  of  its  order  and  meaning.    But  we  recognize 

[638] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

neither  that  which  we  borrow  nor  that  which  we  lend,  and 
we  speak  of  parts  of  our  knowledge  as  a  priori  and  of  parts 
as  a  posteriori,  as  if  some  truths  were  fabricated  by  our- 
selves without  the  aid  of  the  world,  and  others  were  emitted 
by  the  world  without  the  use  of  mind.  Knowing  is  a  joint 
enterprise  in  which  both  are  involved. 

There  is,  perhaps,  no  phenomenon  of  modern  thought 
which  demands  a  closer  diagnosis  than  this  ''disease  of  sub- 
jectivity," which  is  not  only  a  cause  of  the  distrust  of  philos- 
ophy, but  which  would  paralyze  the  enterprise  of  reason  in 
all  other  directions,  if  in  our  practice,  which  is  wider  than  our 
theories,  we  did  not  set  it  at  naught.  It  seems  to  me  to  rest, 
in  the  last  resort,  like  all  the  forms  of  modern  skepticism, 
upon  unjustifiable  dualisms.  For  we  have  been  separating 
when  we  ought  only  to  have  distinguished,  and  converting 
differences  into  contradictions.  And,  on  the  other  hand,  we 
have  been  assuming  that  to  reconcile  differences  is  to  remove 
them,  leaving  nothing  but  flat  and  stale  sameness.  We  have 
not  distinguished  between  sameness  and  identity,  nor  real- 
ized that  identity  can— and,  I  believe,  must— express  itself  in 
change  and  maintain  itself  thereby. 

The  assumptions  arise  from  the  fact  that  we  naturally 
carry  over  into  our  philosophical  research  the  conceptions 
which  we  have  found  useful  in  our  physical  inquiries,  and 
endeavor  to  interpret  the  phenomena  of  mind  in  the  same 
way  as  objects  in  the  outer  world.  As  in  space  every  part 
excludes  every  other,  and  its  continuity  allows  no  diversity: 
thus  only,  it  is  presupposed,  can  the  reality  of  all  objects,  in- 
cluding minds,  be  maintained.  They  must,  we  assume,  be 
kept  in  isolation.  Their  relations  to  one  another  must  be 
treated  as  contingent  addenda :  things  into  which  they  may 
enter  and  out  of  which  they  may  live  again,  without  any 
change  in  their  real  being.    To  be  real,  they  exclude  one  an- 

1:6393 


4 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

other.  Interpenetration,  the  being  of  one  object  through  and 
by  reason  of  the  being  of  other  objects,  is  held  not  to  consti- 
tute but  to  destroy.  The  finite  and  the  infinite  must  stand 
apart.  The  will  of  man,  if  it  is  to  be  free-that  is,  if  it  is  to 
be  a  will-must  shut  out  the  world.  The  subject  must  have 
only  a  negative  attitude  to  objects;  nature  and  spirit,  mind 
and  matter,  must  be  absolute  opposites. 

When  I  endeavor  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  trend  of  the 
thought  of  the  present  times,  and  to  define,  however  gen- 
erally, the  problems  in  which  it  finds  itself  entangled  and 
which  it  must  try  to  solve,  I  find  that  it  is  occupied  with  some 
one  or  other  of  these  dualisms.     The  tissue  of  reality  has 
been  torn  asunder;  and  if  there  be  any  movement  which 
above  all  others  is  indicative  of  the  special  mission  of  the 
times  which  are  coming,  and  are  already  at  the  door,  it  is 
that  of  healing  the  rent  and  of  finally  refuting  all  notions  of 
the  primacy  either  of  the  whole  over  its  elements,  or  of  the 
elements  over  the  whole.    We  must  find  room  for  the  free- 
dom of  both  mind  and  the  world  in  knowledge;  for  both 
spiritual  freedom  and  natural  necessity  in  our  practice;  for 
both  God  and  man  in  religion;  for  both  individualism  and 
socialism  in  our  politics;  for  both  the  one  and  the  many,  the 
universal  and  the  particular,  everywhere;  and  we  must  view 
them  as  interpenetrable;  for  there  is  but  one  reality,  and 
without  Its  cooperation  with  its  elements  nothing  exists  or 
happens. 


[640] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


Second  Lecture 


WE  concluded  the  last  lecture  by  showing  that  both  in 
our  thoughts  and  in  our  actions  we  first  distinguish 
and  then  tend  to  sunder  the  contents  of  reality:  our  thoughts 
are  always  to  some  degree  abstract  and  our  practical  pur- 
poses one-sided.  Reality,  even  at  its  simplest,  has  more 
aspects  than  we  can  either  recognize  or  use:  It  takes  all  the 
sciences,  each  of  them  taking  up  Its  own  set  of  relations,  to 
explain  the  qualities  of  a  lump  of  Iron  ore;  and  most.  If  not 
all,  of  our  Industries  to  extract  Its  uses.  All  thoughts  and  all 
ends  are  abstract. 

But,  among  the  conditions  under  which  man  lives,  we  must 
reckon  as  one  of  the  most  beneficent  that  he  cannot  be  satis- 
fied with  abstractions.  Both  his  own  nature  and  the  nature 
of  things  conspire  together  to  secure  him  against  narrowing 
the  Interests  of  his  life.  The  reflected  elements  of  reality 
press  for  recognition;  and  the  elements  which  are  recognized 
refuse  to  yield  either  their  truth  or  their  use,  except  in  their 
context.  They  even  refute  themselves:  one-sided  truths  be- 
come misleading  errors,  and  one-sided  purposes  refuse  to 
work.  They  call  forth  their  opposites,  and  demand  to  be 
complemented  and  corrected  by  them  and  harmonized  with 
them.  The  world  resists  being  shredded  Into  parts,  and 
persistently  maintains  its  concrete  totality. 

On  the  other  hand,  man's  own  nature  also  constrains  him 
to  move  and  to  cooperate  with  the  trend  toward  unity. 
Abstract  experience  is  a  mind  divided  against  itself:  it  can- 
not  stand.  Man  must  either  widen  his  outlook  and  extend 
the  range  of  his  purposes  in  response  to  the  call  of  circum- 
stance, or  else  do  violence  to  his  own  rational  nature  by  be- 

1:6411 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

coming  the  bondsman  of  habit  and  an  automaton.     And  in 
either  case  he  makes  for  some  kind  of  completeness— either 
the  completeness  which  shuts  out  or  that  which  lays  hands 
upon  and  utilizes  the  environment;  and  the  process  of  ex- 
perience always  changes  him.    The  final  effect  of  the  deeds 
of  his  intelligence  and  will  does  not  lie  in  the  truth  attained, 
or  in  the  purpose  realized,  but  in  the  recoil  of  these  deeds 
upon  himself.    He  rises  from  his  acts  either  with  hardened 
habits  and  strengthened  prejudices,  or  else  with  a  mind  en- 
riched with  new  ideas  and  a  more  effective  will.    Nor  by  any 
means  can  he  return  to  his  past.    Strictly  speaking,  spirit  has 
no  past ;  for  it  always  incorporates  it  with  the  present.    Man 
gathers  his  experience  into  himself;  carries  it  along  with 
him,  as  an  element  in  his  mental  structure,  assimilated  by  his 
living  personality.     He  can  sometimes  unravel  his  past  out 
of  his  present  by  conscious  memory  directly  demonstrating 
its  presence  within  him ;  and  even  if  he  cannot  give  this  direct 
proof  of  the  existence  of  the  past  in  the  present,  he  gives  in- 
direct evidence  of  it  either  in  the  automatization  of  his  life 
and  the  fixity  and  reiteration  of  his  mental  operations,  or 
else  in  the  added  skill  and  compass  of  his  thoughts  and  pur- 
poses.   This  arrestment  of  the  past  and  its  conversion  into 
a  living  element  in  the  moving  life  is  the  mark  and  marvel  of 
the  rational  nature  of  man,  distinguishing  him  above  all 
other  things  from  other  beings,  as  the  condition  of  his  prog- 
ress. 

Moreover,  it  is  in  this  way  that  he  maintains  his  personal 
identity.  For  that  consists  not  In  any  immutable  sameness 
such  as  we  attribute,  rightly  or  wrongly,  to  material  exis- 
tence. The  self-extenuating  space,  the  succession  of  the 
contents  of  time,  each  supplanting  its  predecessor,  must  be 
overcome  and  Its  flow  arrested  If  personal  Identity  Is  main- 
tained.   And  this  Is  not  possible  except  by  the  activity  of  a 

1:642] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

self-consciousness  which  retains  the  past  by  waking  it  into 
the  present.  Even  the  sameness  or  permanence  of  the  outer 
order  implies,  as  Kant  has  shown,  the  reintegrating  activity 
of  self-consciousness.  Reason  in  man  thus  becomes  ever  more 
concrete,  systematizes  ever  more  fully  both  Its  own  life-con- 
tent and  its  outer  world.  Its  war  with  abstractions  is  per- 
petual :  to  lay  down  Its  arms  Is  to  yield  Its  life. 

It  is  not  a  defect  of  human  reason  that  It  must  reach  the 
concrete  by  way  of  abstractions :  It  Is  Its  nature.  Error  does 
not  consist  In  merely  entertaining  abstractions,  but  in  treating 
the  abstractions  as  representative  of  the  concrete  whole  of 
reality.  It  arises  when  man  endeavors  to  fix  the  abstractions, 
or  to  employ  them  as  final  characterizations  of  reality. 
There  Is  a  true  sense  in  which  human  knowledge  may  be  said 
to  begin  with  the  particular  and  the  simple,  and  to  make  its 
way  toward  the  universal  and  concrete— to  start  from  "the 
Many''  and  to  seek  "the  One.''  But  there  is  also  a  true 
sense  in  which  knowledge  may  be  said  to  begin  with  the  in- 
definite "an  undistinguished  continuum,"  and  to  proceed  to 
articulate  and  define  Its  contents— to  start  from  "the  One" 
and  to  seek  "the  Many."  From  the  first  point  of  view,  our 
experience  is  at  first  a  sensuous  manifold  which  has  to  be 
connected  first  Into  perceptions,  then  Into  conceptions,  and 
finally  Into  the  organic  and  hyperorganic  Ideas  of  reason. 
And,  pari  passu,  the  object  of  experience,  nature,  at  first 
appears  to  be  the  scene  of  disconnected  happenings  and  to  be 
a  loose  aggregate  of  unrelated  facts,  and  eventually  to  ap- 
pear as  a  universal  cosmos.  From  the  second  point  of  view, 
our  experience  is  at  first  a  confused  mass  of  sensations  press- 
ing  Into  us  through  the  pores  of  sense,  and  perceptions  arise 
by  distinguishing  and  articulating.  And  the  object  of  experi- 
ence, the  world,  changes  Its  character  In  a  corresponding 
way.     Now  error   arises  when  either  of  these  views   is 


'■(I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

adopted  against  the  other,  or  as  the  whole  truth,  and  made 
the  basis  of  a  philosophical  account  of  the  real.    And  that  it 
is  an  error  is  shown  by  the  necessity  of  correcting  the  original 
hypothesis  by  means  of  its  opposite.    For  whichever  presup- 
position we  assume  at  the  beginning  is  nothing  but  a  starting- 
point    from    which    its    complementary    opposite    must   be 
reached.     If  the  pluralist  begins  with  the  Many,  particulars 
he  must  confessedly  synthesize  and  unite;  if  the  absolutist 
begins  with  the  One,  the  indefinite  whole  he  must  analyze  and 
articulate.    Philosophers  may  differ  as  to  the  nature  of  real- 
ity, and  their  doctrines  may  range  between  an  absolutism  or 
pantheism  that  engulfs  the  many  and  deletes  all  differences, 
and  a  pluralism  or  monadism.    It  is  true  that  neither  on  the 
side  of  its  difference  nor  of  its  unity  is  human  knowledge 
complete— that  is  to  say,  the  distinctions  which  are  made  are 
not  clear,  differences  escape  our  observation;  and,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  unity  in  which  they  are  comprised  may  have 
both  little  compass  and  little  significance.     But  pure  differ- 
ence and  pure  sameness  baffle  the  intelligence  by  their  mean- 
inglessness;  indeed,  neither  can  be  affirmed  or  denied  except 
in  relation  to  its  opposite.     Every  judgment,  every  opinion, 
false  or  true,  wide  or  narrow  Its  influence,  implies  differ- 
ences within  a  unity,  and  is  always  a  system.    The  assump- 
tion of  pure  particularity  which  the  pluralist  makes,  and  of 
pure  unity  or  sameness  which  the  absolutist  makes,  is  not 
valid  of  the  object  of  knowledge  at  any  stage,  from  the 
crudest  ordinary  consciousness  to  the  completest  constructive 
height  of  the  speculative  philosopher.    The  problem  of  pass- 
ing either  from  the  Many  to  the  One,  or  from  the  One  to  the 
Many,  Is  insoluble;  but  it  Is  also  a  problem  that  the  human 
mind  is  not  obliged  to  ask.    It  is  a  problem  asked  neither  by 
the  nature  of  things  nor  by  the  nature  of  reason.     It  Is  as 
unnecessary  and  as  Insoluble  as  the  problem  of  proving  that 

[644] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

2x2  =  91.  And  the  way  to  deal  with  such  a  problem  Is  not 
to  ask  it.  The  several  philosophies  which  ask  the  question 
are  the  ordlnes  of  abstraction,  and  their  error  Is  revealed 
whenever  the  abstractions  are  faithfully  pressed  home. 
They  will  then  be  seen  not  only  to  call  forth,  but  to  pass  Into, 
their  opposltes,  and  thus  to  refute  their  own  starting-point. 

A  general  survey  of  the  reflective  thought  of  the  present 
day  will  prove,  I  believe,  that  It  is  engaged  upon  this  task; 
and  Its  main  province  lies  In  the  expllcltness  of  the  assump- 
tions and  the  rigor  with  which  they  are  being  followed  to 
their  conclusions.  At  no  previous  time  were  the  advocates 
of  the  Many  and  of  the  One  so  frankly  opposed  or  so  evenly 
balanced,  nor  their  contradiction  more  direct  and  full.  Ex- 
cept In  one  or  two  instances,  pluralism  exists  in  order  to  com- 
plete absolutism,  and  means  to  have  no  mission  except  to 
maintain  the  existence  of  contingency  and  multiplicity,  and  it 
must  Itself  perish  In  the  hour  of  Its  victory.  But  the  plural- 
Ism  which  aims  at  being  constructive  Is  an  unusually  interest- 
ing phenomenon,  and  much  more  characteristic  of  the  times 
than  the  absolutism  which  it  would  refute  and  supplant. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  absolutism  which  Is  supposed  to 
begin  with  a  bare  "universal"  or  '*One,"  and  to  proceed  to 
evolve  the  varied  contents  of  experience  from  that  "One," 
employing  an  a  priori  method  of  mere  analysis,  need  not 
detain  us.  Such  a  method  may  have  been  employed  by  the 
Eleatlcs,  and  can  be  attributed,  not  without  justice,  to  Spi- 
noza. It  is  also  supposed  by  critics  to  be  employed  by  Hegel 
and  his  followers.  But  it  does  not  concern  us  at  present  to 
determine  by  whom  the  theory  is  or  has  been  maintained, 
nor  under  what  great  names  it  may  shelter  Itself;  for  we  are 
not  engaged  with  the  history  of  philosophy.  We  need  not 
seek  to  ascertain  whether  the  Absolute  of  Hegel  stood  for  an 
empty  One,  or  for  the  whole  of  reality  as  It  Is  In  all  its  con- 

[6453 


i 


'il 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

creteness  in  itself  and  for  itself.     Only  the  first,   as  the 
abstract  Absolute,  engages  the  attention  of  the  pluralist  and 

concerns  us. 

But  it  concerns  us  only  to  be  dismissed.  I  admit  at  once, 
and  without  any  reservation,  that  philosophy  cannot  begin 
from  such  an  Absolute;  that  if  it  could  begin,  it  could  find  no 
way  from  it  to  the  rich  complexity  of  real  being;  and  that  the 
method  of  mere  analysis  and  a  priori  deduction  can  elicit 
nothing  out  of  its  emptiness.  No  doubt  the  psychological 
history  of  man's  mind  may  give  evidence  of  a  process  by 
which  the  indefinite  mass  of  its  original  sensuous  conscious- 
ness is  distinguished  into  elements  and  sights  and  sounds,  and 
even  the  Ego  and  the  non-Ego  are  practically  defined  and 
their  differences  made  explicit.  But  absolutists  are  held  to 
be  guilty  of  neglect,  or  even  contempt,  of  psychological  evi- 
dence rather  than  of  converting  psychology  into  a  metaphys- 
ical absolutism,  though  I  should  find  great  difficulty  in 
admitting  its  existence  elsewhere  than  in  the  minds  of  its 

critics. 

But  it  is  not  so  with  the  opposite  theory,  which  professes 
to  start  with  ''the  Many"  and  to  seek  "the  One";  which 
maintains  that  particulars  are  given  and  universals  are 
found;  that  experience  proceeds  from  discrete  sensations  to 
perceptions,  and  from  perceptions  to  more  general  concep- 
tions, and  from  those  to  the  still  wider  "ideas  of  reason"; 
and  that  the  object  of  experience,  the  whole  region  of  or- 
dered facts,  presents  itself  at  first  as  the  scene  of  separate, 
individual  occurrences,  and  an  aggregate  of  things  real  in 
their  independence  of  one  another,  each  of  them  isolated, 
impervious,  exclusive,  an  object  of  simple  apprehension. 
The  pluralists  maintain,  in  so  far  as  they  are  logically  faith- 
ful to  their  fundamental  hypothesis,  that  such  is  the  true  or 
final  character  of  reality.  If  we  affirm  its  unity  as  a  whole, 
or  the  harmony  of  its  elements  in  virtue  of  any  universal 

1:6463 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

principle  or  law  of  being,  we  go  beyond  our  evidence:  we 
even  flout  the  facts.  All  the  objects  of  man's  thought  are 
finite;  even  God  is  one  among,  or,  what  comes  to  the  same 
thing,  one  above  and  over  above,  other  beings.  Real  exist- 
ence implies  singularity.  A  thing,  in  order  to  be,  must  be 
itself,  must  carry  within  it  a  private  core,  which  is  its  own 
true  being,  and  which  remains  its  very  self,  whatever  rela- 
tions it  may  enter  into  or  come  out  of. 

All  realities  are  particulars,  we  are  told.  Nothing  exists 
beside  particulars.  There  is  "no  tinity'^  or  common  element, 
no  real  or  existential  universals,  which  exist  or  subsist  in 
addition  to  the  particulars.  There  are  no  things-in-general, 
and  no  events-in-general.  Nothing  exists  which  corresponds 
to  such  a  general  conception  as  "animal"  or  "tree"  or 
"man" ;  but  only  this  or  that  animal  or  tree  or  man.  Nor  is 
there  any  universal  substrate  which  constitutes  them  into  a 
class.  A  class  is  due  to  our  classification:  it  is  an  idea,  not  a 
thing.  We  may,  and  do,  find  similarity  between  different 
objects:  but  each  of  them  exists  in  and  by  itself,  and  the 
similarity  is  an  idea  which  we  form  by  comparing  them  with 
one  another.  Anything  that  destroys  their  intrinsic  singu- 
larity or  uniqueness  destroys  them:  for  them  to  be  is  to  be 
each  its  own  unique  self. 

How,  then,  do  we  account  for  law  and  order?  It  is  sim- 
ply and  purely  the  outcome  of  intelligence.  Everything  that 
exists  is  its  own  law,  an  active  essence,  or  character,  behav- 
ing in  its  own  particular  way.  There  are,  therefore,  no 
repetitions  in  the  realm  of  the  real,  any  more  than  there  are 
similarities,  and  no  absolute  fixity.  Repetition,  enumeration, 
measurement,  mathematics  are  not  possible  except  by  ab- 
straction, and  are  not  true  of  any  real  existences.  "All 
our  assertions  of  identity  among  reals  are  at  bottom  nega- 
tive, amount  simply  to  saying  that  we  discern  no  difference." 

But  what  comes  of  this  view  of  the  universal  laws,  which 

1647 -2 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

science  seeks  to  establish,  and  the  uniformity  of  nature  which 
they  postulate  ?    Does  not  this  doctrine  "let  contingency  into 
the  very  heart  of  things"?     Must  not  a  perfectly  discrete 
world  be  in  every  part  of  it  unintelligible?    The  consistent 
pluralist  answers  these  questions  in  the  affirmative.    So  far 
as  science  deals  in  universals,  it  does  not  touch  the  reality  of 
things.    Thought  must  start  from  the  particular,  but  it  can- 
not return  to  it.     Thought  gives  us  only  the  universal,  and 
universals   are   only  hypostasized   epistemological   entities. 
Facts  and  universals,  in  short,  belong  to  different  orders: 
the  former  to  the  world  of  objective  reality,  the  latter  to  the 
objective  world  of  knowledge.    Moreover,  they  do  not  even 
correspond.    The  universals  are  not  true— that  is,  they  indi- 
cate no  existing  realities,  as  perceptions  may  do.     The  so- 
called  laws,  and  the  universal  and  necessary  causes  of  which 
natural  science  speaks,  correspond  to  nothing  that  exists  in 
reality.    There  are  no  laws  or  necessities  or  uniformities  of 
nature.    These  are  mere  results  of  our  own  thinking,  concep- 
tions fabricated  by  our  minds  through  observing,  selecting, 
summarizing  and  generalizing  the  multitudinous,  particular 
occurrences  which  really  take  place.    "In  the  real  world  we 
can  nowhere  find  that  exact  similarity  which  the  mathema- 
tician can  readily  conceive,  and  the  contention  is  that  it  no- 
where  exists."      "There   are  never  two  beings  which  are 
perfectly  alike,  and  in  which  it  is  not  possible  to  find  an 
internal  difference" ;  and,  a  fortiori,  no  two  events  or  occur- 
rences or  activities  can  be  identical.    There  is,  to  our  loose 
and  general  observation,  an  apparent  repetition  of  events,  of 
acts  in  the  world,  and  we  speak  of  "same  causes"  and  "same 
effects"  ;  but  sameness  and  uniformity,  together  with  the  con- 
tinuity and  necessity  which  are  assumed  to  spring  from  them, 
are  mere  thoughts.    There  are  no  natural  laws,  nor  any  real 
being  corresponding  to  any  concepts  the  physicist  can  find  it 

C  648:1 


"\ 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

convenient  to  frame  regarding  the  ultimate  constituents  of 
matter.  Continuity  must  destroy  particularity.  Each  real 
thing  has  its  own  unique  constitution.  Pluralism  thus  does 
not  hesitate  "to  let  contingency  into  the  very  heart  of 
things."  "I  not  only  admit  it,"  says  Dr.  Ward,  "but  contend 
that  any  other  world  would  be  meaningless." 

But  there  is  another  application  of  this  pluralism  to  which 
I  must  briefly  refer.     It  is  its  application  to  the  subjects  of 
knowledge.    The  particularity,  uniqueness,  and  exclusiveness 
which  is  the  essential  character  or  true  being  and  essence  of 
natural  things,  is  attributed  to  minds,  and  to  their  experi- 
ences.    Every  mind  exists,  and  for  itself.    There  is  no  con- 
tinuity between  or  in  them,  and  each  is  absolutely  impervious. 
Every  mind  maintains  the  absolute  isolation  of  its  own  being. 
And  the  same  holds  of  their  experiences— or  the  same  would 
hold  if  any  general  affirmation  could  be  true.    The  presenta- 
tions of  one  man  cannot  become  the  presentations  of  an- 
other.   Every  mind  is  the  exclusive  owner  or  retainer  of  its 
own  truths  and  its  own  errors.    To  every  self  its  own  world, 
to  every  Ego  its  own  non-Ego.    Above  all  else,  we  must  not 
play  fast  and  loose  with  the  uniqueness  and  isolation— with 
the  being  in  itself  and  for  itself— of  personality,  or  of  its  ex- 
perience. 

How,  then,  can  they  agree?  How  can  they  disagree? 
How  is  any  communication  between  them  possible?  Not  by 
changing  places,  not  in  such  a  way  that  "the  presentations  of 
one  could  become  accessible  to  the  others."  "This  is  just  the 
most  impossible  thing  in  the  world.  Individuality  consists 
precisely  in  this  impossibility."  There  is  no  element  com- 
mon to  the  several  experiences.  Each  monad  mirrors  its 
world  "from  a  unique  standpoint  of  its  own."  Universal 
truth,  in  the  sense  of  a  truth  that  is  possessed  or  attainable 
by  all  minds,  has  to  go  the  way  of  all  other  universals;  and 

1:6493 


^1, 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

if  general  conceptions  are  still  possible,  they  are  possible  only 
in  the  sense  that  every  mind  has  its  own  private  stock  ot 
them.  There  are  thus  as  many  experiences  as  there  are  per- 
sons, and  as  many  sciences  as  there  are  scientific  men-prob- 
ably  more.  And  they  are  all  interpretations,  equally  true  or 
equally  false-if,  indeed,  either  falsity  or  truth  can  appertain 
to  different  worlds  where  every  mind  has  its  own  object. 
Pluralism  implies  solipsism.  ''So  far  as  reality  consists  in 
particulars,  so  far  it  pertains  to  each  experience  for  itself 
alone;  and  so  far  the  solipsist  in  theory,  and  the  egoist,  a 
solipsist  in  conduct,  are  logically  unassailable,  even  though 
the  proper  place  to  put  them  be,  as  Schopenhauer  said,  the 

madhouse." 

But  we  have  just  seen  that  on  the  pluralistic  theory  reality 
consists  exclusively  of  particulars.  What,  then,  can  be  the 
meaning  of  introducing  the  qualifying  phrase  "so  far"?  It 
is  necessary  in  order  to  escape  from  solipsism,  and,  in  other 
words,  to  enable  the  several  persons  to  communicate  with 
one  another-communication  consisting  "in  establishing 
relations  between  these  primary  realia."  There  must  be  a 
medium  for  mutual  understanding,  and  by  means  of  it  they 
must  arrive  at  common  knowledge. 

But  what  can  "common  knowledge"  mean  for  the  plural- 
ist? Evidently  not  that  the  knowledge  which  L  has  is  also 
possessed  by  M  and  N.  They  "cannot  change  places  so  that 
the  presentations  of  one  become  accessible  in  their  actual 
entirety  to  the  others."  "This  is  just  the  most  impossible 
thing  in  the  world.  Individuality  consists  precisely  In  this 
impossibility."  The  knowledge  of  L,  M  and  N  may  con- 
ceivably agree,  but  no  part  or  element  of  the  knowledge  of  L 
can  be  the  knowledge  of  M  or  N.  Each  of  them^'^'mirrors 
the  universe  from  a  unique  standpoint  of  his  own."  Every 
Ego  has  its  own  non-Ego.    "Thus,  when  in  place  of  the  Ego 

1:650:1 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

L  we  have  M  or  N,  so  too  in  place  of  the  non-Ego  non-L 
we  have  non-M  or  non-N."  The  mutual  independence  and 
isolation  of  the  subjects  of  knowledge  thus  carries  with  it  the 
isolation  and  mutual  exclusion  of  the  objects  of  their  know- 
ledge. All  experience,  to  begin  with,  is,  we  are  told,  "in- 
dividual." It  is  the  private  knowledge  of  each  person,  and 
it  is  a  knowledge  of  different  objects.  When  ten  men  look  at 
the  sun  or  moon,  "each  of  these  persons  sees  a  different 
object."  How,  then,  and  in  what  sense  do  the  ten  come  to 
know  that  the  actual  object  of  each  is  the  same  individual 
object  for  all?  How  can  they  hold  any  communication 
with  one  another  so  as  to  agree,  or  even  disagree?  "Except 
on  the  basis  of  individual  experience,  communication  is  im- 
possible," for  it  is  evident  that,  first  of  all,  each  must  have 
something  which  he  wishes  to  communicate.  The  difficulty 
would  seem  to  be  Insuperable. 

It  Is  overcome,  however,  by  one  author  in  a  very  simple 
way.  He  assumes  just  the  least  possible  "common  know- 
ledge"!  "The  most  that  L  can  Indicate  or  communicate  to 
M  of  any  part  of  his  own  experience  is  so  much  of  it  as  Is 
common  to  the  experience  of  both."  We  may  be  sure  that 
the  earliest  intercourse  Is  very  slight:  just  simple  Indications, 
a  mere  pointing  to  a  particular  thing  as  this  or  that.  But 
once  It  Is  begun,  the  process  goes  on  successfully.  "We  point 
to  other  particulars  resembling  It,  other  shining,  moving, 
round  objects,  and  so,  by  suggesting  Its  likeness  to  these,  take 
the  chance  that  parallel  relations  or  comparisons  will  be 
verified  by  our  fellow-men." 

Criticism  of  this  view  seems  to  me  to  be  superfluous.  It  Is 
directly  self-contradictory;  and  the  contradiction  Is  not  In  the 
least  removed  by  admitting  as  little  common  knowledge  to 
begin  with  as  possible.  For  "common  knowledge"  or  "com- 
mon" anything  Is  just  what  pluralism  denies. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Nor  does  practice  come  to  the  help  of  theory,  as  we  are 
asked  to  believe.  I  do  not  doubt  In  the  least  that  "the  case  of 
ten  hungry  men  and  a  loaf  would  be  an  Impressive  object-les- 
son" ;  and  It  ought  to  be  specially  Impressive  to  the  pluralist. 
For  he  would  find  It  difficult  to  live  up  to  his  theory  were  he 
one  of  the  ten.    To  do  so,  having  his  own  unique  experience 
of  his  own  unique  loaf,  he  should  not  object  to  any  of  the 
others  eating  their  own  unique  loaves-supposing,  mdeed, 
he  could  be  aware  of  their  loaves.    A  pluralism  that  Is  con- 
sistent  is  certainly  not  supported  by  practical  experience,  and 
there  Is  absolutely  no  transition  possible  from  Individual 
experience,  such  as  it  is  represented  by  the  pluralist,  to  that 
experience  which  Is  universal  In  the  sense  that  different  men 
understand  one  another  and  mean  the  same  things  by  the 

same  things.  ,       ,  •  ,    i 

It  would  be  interesting  to  observe  the  manner  m  which  the 
pluralist  repeats,  In  his  final  philosophical  account  of  reality 
as  a  whole,  the  same  contradictory  process  as  he  employs  m 
order  to  enable  his  theory  to  start  on  its  way.     For  we  find 
that  the  deity  Is  introduced  as  a  background  of  unity,  or  as 
some  kind  of  substrate,  or  is  even  spoken  of  as  "Immanent." 
It  Is  admitted,  however,  that  such  a  conception  of  the  unity 
of  the  whole  cannot  be  "empirically  verified."    "The  plural- 
ist halts  at  the  Many  and  their  interaction;  he  declines  to  go 
further  because  he  finds  no  warrant  for  so  doing."    But  if  it 
is  objected  that  the  hypothesis  of  unity  Is  of  no  use  unless  it 
can  be  verified,  we  are  reminded  that  philosophy  is  not  sci- 
ence.     Science   must   verify   empirically.     The   facts  with 
which  science  deals  "fall  within  experience,  and  this  is  sure, 
therefore,  sooner  or  later  to  furnish  a  crucial  test  of  the 
validity"  (of  its  hypotheses) .    But  philosophy  cannot  justify 
its  Ideas  In  this  way.     It  employs  another  method.     It  jus- 
tifies  its  "ideas"  by  appealing  to  "experience  as  a  concrete 

[652] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

whole";  "and  they  are  justified  In  proportion  as  they  enable 
us  to  conceive  this  whole  as  a  complete  and  systematic  unity." 
But,  we  ask.  Is  not  the  conception  of  the  whole  as  "a  complete 
and  systematic  unity"  precisely  what  the  pluralist  cannot 
have?  For,  as  we  are  told  in  the  next  sentence,  "the  plural- 
ist halts  at  the  Many  and  their  Interaction;  he  declines  to  go 
further  because  he  finds  no  direct  warrant  for  doing  so." 
He  gets  his  indirect  warrant  by  an  appeal  to  theism— that  is, 
by  an  appeal  to  that  which  cannot  be  included  in  his  theory 
because  it  contradicts  it.  The  pluralist,  being  also  a  theist, 
admits  a  unity  for  which  he  has  no  warrant  In  experience, 
and  with  which  the  facts  which  are  held  to  be  given  in  ex- 
perience, being  a  "Many,"  are  directly  inconsistent.  Plural- 
ism begins  and  ends  with  a  contradiction. 

The  failure  of  pluralism  in  its  application  to  the  objects  of 
knowledge  is  not  less  evident  than  it  is  in  its  application  to 
the  subjects  of  knowledge.  The  relation  of  the  former  to 
one  another  is  as  unintelligible  and  impossible  as  intercom- 
munication between  the  latter.  In  fact,  the  problem  in  both 
cases  is  the  same;  for  all  objects  of  knowledge  turn  out  to  be 
in  the  last  resort  all  subjects  of  knowledge,  and  all  "things" 
are  held  to  be  persons.  "The  only  things  of  which  we  have 
positive  knowledge  are  subjects  with  intrinsic  qualities, 
things  that  are  something  in  themselves  and  something  for 
themselves." 

The  pluralist  admits  relations  between  objects,  as  he  ad- 
mits the  intercommunication  of  subjects  and  an  experience 
which  is  universal.  But  they  are  not  relations  between 
things,  in  the  sense  of  existing  over  and  above  that  which 
they  relate.  There  are  not  things  here  and  relations  there; 
in  other  words,  there  are  no  existential  universals. 

What,  then,  are  relations?  They  are  the  activities  of  par- 
ticulars, "the  intercourse,  the  cooperation  or  conflict,  actual 

n653  3 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

or  possible,  of  the  Individuals  themselves."     ^'The  passion 
and  action  of  things  must  take  the  place  of  relation.  .  .  . 
There  are  no  objective  relations  other  than  this  livmg  action 
and  passion."    But  we  know  nothing  that  is  active  or  passive 
except  minds,  and  nothing  else  can  be  for  itself.    Hence  "the 
only  causes  of  which  we  have  positive  knowledge  are  minds: 
these  have  a  nature  of  their  own,  and  hence  can  interact, 
determine   and  be   determined."      Plurahsm   ends   m  pan- 
psychism      "The  attractions  and  repulsions  of  which  the 
physicist  speaks  only  metaphorically,  are  to  be  taken  literally 
-that  is,  as  implying  impulses  Initiated  and  determined  by 
feeling  "    'Tor  modern  plurahsm  the  universe  Is  the  totality 
of  monads  really  interacting."     The  "Many  of  pluralism 
constitutes  the  class  of  entelechles  or  persons  in  the  widest 
sense-beings,  that  Is  to  say,  who  are  something  for  them- 
selves,  conatlve  and  cognitive  Individuals  bent  on  self-conser- 
vation  and  seeking  the  good."     'They  are  severally  related 
by  their  mutual  Interaction.  ...  We  have  not  two  distinct 
and  separable  facts-first,  the  Many,  existing  In  isolation 
and  then  their  Interaction."    "The  universe  Is  the  totality  of 
monads  really  interacting,  and  this  Is  one  fact."     "The  plu- 
rality Implies  the  unity,  and  this  unity  implies  the  plurality- 
a  fact  which  is  an  Inexhaustible  wonder." 

Now  It  Is  evident  that  the  crucial  question  for  this  doctrine 
Is  the  posslblhty  of  the  Interaction  of  the  monads,  or  the  cog- 
nitive and  conatlve  persons  into  which  all  reality.  Including 
so-called  material  reality,  has  been  resolved.  But  we  have 
found  already  that  this  Is  Impossible,  and  I  shall  add  only 
one  consideration  to  those  I  have  already  advanced. 

Let  It  be  assumed  that  the  monad  or  personality  A  knows 
and  wills,  and  also  that  for  It  to  he  Is  to  know  and  will.  Let 
it  be  admitted,  further,  that  monads  B,  C  and  D  do  and  are 
the  same.     It  is  plain  that  the  action  and  passion  of  A  are 

[654] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

exclusively  its  own ;  so  also  are  the  actions  of  B,  C  and  D.  Is 
It  less  plain  that  in  that  case  the  relation  or  interaction  of 
these  several  experiences,  supposing  it  does  result,  is  no  part 
of  the  action  or  passion  of  any  one  of  them?  The  assump- 
tion that  the  actions  and  passions  do  interact,  and  that  they 
are  experienced  as  interacting,  may  be  quite  true:  but  for 
the  pluralist  it  must  not  only  be  made  gratuitously  and  dog- 
matically, but  in  flat  contradiction  of  the  fundamental 
hypothesis  of  the  particularity  and  exclusive  individuality  of 
every  item  of  the  "Many." 

Moreover,  I  must  ask  one  more  question  of  the  pluralist. 
Can  any  particle,  monad,  person  or  subject  either  be  active 
or  passive  purely  from  within  Itself?  The  pluralist  finds 
his  clue  to  the  nature  of  all  reality  in  his  own  mind.  Has  he 
known  his  own  mind,  either  mind  or  will,  entirely  apart  from 
the  universe  in  which  it  exists  ?  Is  action  or  passion  /';/  z^acuo 
possible  ?  And  is  not  a  mind  out  of  all  relation  to  the  w^orld, 
a  self  which  has  no  not-self,  a  vacuum  and  pure  fiction?  To 
will,  think,  or  even  feel  nothing  is  neither  to  think  nor  will 
nor  feel;  and  a  mind  without  any  "content"  is  a  nonentity. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  it  has  a  content,  that  content,  for  all 
the  purposes  of  "conation  and  cognition,"  is  an  object  and  a 
non-Ego.  But  an  Ego  which  has  its  non-Ego  or  world  as  its 
content  or  object  of  experience  is  not  the  "particular,"  exclu- 
sive Ego  of  the  pluralist.  It  at  least  implicitly  contains  its 
world !  The  Ego,  instead  of  being  exclusive  and  particular, 
turns^  out  to  be  at  least  potentially  all-comprehensive.  The 
individual  mind  is  the  subjective  expression  and  the  spiritual 
focus  of  the  universe.  It  Is  a  Many  In  One;  and  to  explain 
how  this  can  be  is  the  paramount  problem  of  philosophy. 

It  is  an  old  problem,  this  of  the  relation  of  the  One  and 
the  Many;  and  I  agree  entirely  with  Dr.  Ward  when  he  says 
that  "the  solution  is  not  to  be  obtained  by  passing  over  the 

1:^55:1 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Many  at  the  outset,  trusting  to  deduce  them  afterward  from 
an  absolute  One  that  is  reached  a  priori'';  and  that  *'this 
method  has  proved  itself  illusory;  the  seeming  attainment  of 
the  One  has  meant  the  disappearance  of  the  Many."    If,  as 
he  avers,  Fichte,  Schelling,  Hegel,  Schopenhauer,  and  others 
less  distinguished  verily  held  such  an  "absolutism  or  singu- 
larism,"  — a  question  which  I  do  not  raise  at  present,— their 
recent  thought  does  well  in  recoiling  from  their  doctrines.    I 
can  only  say  that  I  have  not  understood  them  in  this  and  that 
way.    On  the  other  hand,  I  find  that  Dr.  Ward  admits  that 
pluralism  has  also  "failed  to  reach  a  satisfactory  solution  of 
the  problem  of  the  One  and  the  Many'^  he  allows  "that  no 
philosophy  has  ever  managed  to  reconcile  these  two  notions 
of  an  infinite  power  and  an  infinite  variety  of  limited,  indi- 
vidualized expressions  of  that  power."     But  I  would  apply 
to  pluralism,  mutatis  mutandis,  precisely  what  he  says  of 
absolutism    or    singularism.      The    solution    is    not   to   be 
obtained  by  passing  over  the  [One]  [Many]  at  the  outset, 
trusting    to    deduce    [it]    afterward    from    the    Absolute 
[Many].     For  the  Many  is  not  "given."     The  pure  Many 
is  as  much  an  a  priori  construct  as  the  "Absolute  One,"  and 
as  little  given  in  experience.     And  as  it  is  admitted  that 
"Pluralism  fails  or  has  so  far  failed  to  account  for  the  unity 
that  it  in  fact  involves,"  then  the  right  and  the  duty  of  recoil- 
ing from  the  doctrine  is  as  absolute  and  imperative  as  the 
right  and  duty  of  recoiling  from  its  opposite. 

Indeed,  the  promise  as  well  as  the  problem  of  the  philo- 
sophic thought  of  the  twentieth  century  arises  from  the  ex- 
posure of  the  impossibility  of  both  of  these  abstract  theories, 
and  its  rejection  all  along  the  line,  from  the  most  elementary 
perception  to  the  most  comprehensive  reflective  knowledge 
of  the  premises  and  the  methods  of  both. 

[:656] 


>.  ...  -^.^  fc-ta.  *~^s^ 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


Third  Lecture 


NO  theory  can  be  satisfactory  if  it  is  inconsistent  with 
itself;  and  none  can  be  satisfactory  if  it  attains  self- 
consistency  by  merely  ignoring   or   abolishing  differences. 
Pluralism  cannot  afford  to  be  self-contradictory,   and  sin- 
gularism or  absolutism  cannot  afford  to  affirm  empty  same- 
ness.   These  rival  schools,  starting  from  opposite  poles  and 
employing  opposite  methods,  would  arrive  at  the  same  goal. 
They  would  admit  in  their  scheme  both  unity  and  diversity, 
and  they  would  reconcile  these  notions.    And  reconciliation 
would,  for  both  alike,  mean  more  than  the  admission  of  unity 
and  diversity  side  by  side.    The  One  must  be  explicable  only 
through  the  Many,  and  the  Many  only  through  the  One. 
Such  is  the  acknowledged  condition  and  criterion  of  philo- 
sophic truth:  it  cannot  contain  ultimate  incongruities  nor  be 
incomplete;  it  must  be  a  system  which  is  all-comprehensive, 
and  in  which  all  the  elements  have  their  own  place  and 
function. 

It  ought,  it  seems  to  me,  to  be  obvious  that  the  condition 
and  criterion  of  reality  must  in  these  respects  be  the  same  for 
the  real.  To  maintain  a  different  criterion  of  truth  and  real- 
ity is  not  possible  with  establishing  a  fundamental  discrep- 
ancy between  them  at  all  points.  Reality  can  as  well  contain 
ultimate  contingencies  as  truth  can  contain  ultimate  contra- 
dictions. Pluralism  must  as  a  philosophical  theory  be  a 
doctrine  of  the  universe  as  a  whole,  and  if  its  doctrine  must 
be  self-consistent  its  universe  must  be  one.  And  absolutism, 
if  its  "One"  is  to  have  meaning,  must  affirm  the  real  diversity 
of  the  real.  In  a  word,  on  any  theory,  the  destiny  of  reality 
must  be  the  same  as  that  of  truth.    Epistemology  and  ontol- 

1:657:1 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

ogy,  even  for  those  who  recoil  from  saying  that  "reality  is 
experience,"  must  be  two  names  for  one  doctrine.  For  the 
real  gains  no  expression  except  in  knowledge,  and  knowledge 
must  have  the  real  for  its  content. 

No  one  will  affirm  that  the  concrete  truth  of  the  concrete 
real  either  has  been  or  can  be  attained  by  human  knowledge. 
In  that  sense  no  philosophy  has  ever  pretended  to  be  "abso- 
lute." But  we  found  in  the  last  lecture  that  such  a  truth 
cannot  be  approached,  and  that  not  even  the  first  step  can 
be  taken  toward  it  by  a  philosophy  which  omits  either  the 
One  or  the  Many  from  its  original  premises.  There  is  no 
way  either  from  differences  to  unity  or  from  unity  to  differ- 
ence. Indeed,  it  might  be  shown  that  both  pure  difference 
and  pure  unity  are  confused  and  contradictory  notions.  To 
endeavor  to  start  from  either  the  one  or  the  other  is  to  start 
from  the  abstract  and  the  meaningless. 

What  alternative  remains  for  philosophy?  Evidently  to 
start  from  unity  as  expressing  itself  in  diversity,  or  as  al- 
ready concrete.  Knowledge  must  exhibit  at  every  stage- 
even  the  first— the  essential  characteristics  of  a  system. 
Every  object,  whether  it  be  that  of  immediate  perception  or 
that  of  philosophic  reflection,  whether  it  be  a  so-called 
simple  fact  or  the  universe  in  its  totality,  must  have  the  char- 
acter of  individuality.  This  means  that  it  must  consist  of 
parts  or  elements  between  which  there  are  real  differences; 
but,  at  the  same  time,  the  differences  must  so  complement 
and  sustain  one  another  as  to  constitute  one  reality.  And 
that  reality  is  not  the  mere  sum  of  the  parts  or  elements,  nor 
is  it  anything  superimposed  upon  them  by  way  of  a  contain- 
ing supplement  or  envelope.  For  the  one  can  neither  be 
indifferent  to  the  elements  nor  independent  of  them;  nor  are 
they,  on  their  part,  indifferent  to  or  independent  of  one 
another  or  of  the  whole.     The  One  and  the  Many  must 

r6583 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

derive  their  Intrinsic  cliaracter  and  their  very  being  and 
function  from  each  other.    They  must  be  distinguishable,  tor 
they  are  different;  but  they  must  not  be  separable,  for  they 
constitute  a  unity.    On  the  other  hand,  they  must  be  One  for 
they  are  forms  of  one  reality;  but  they  must  not  be  fused 
into  sameness,  for  they  are  different.     But  this  means  that 
individuality  belongs  both  to  the  whole  and  also  to  every  real 
element  of  the  whole  or  instance  of  the  Many.    To  deny  the 
individuality  of  the  whole  is  to  disintegrate  .t  into  inex- 
plicable and  unreal  differences,  every  one  of  which    is  a  surd 
for  thought";  and  to  deny  the  individuality  of  the  parts  or 
elements  is  to  reduce  unity  to  emptiness  and  to  make  it  mean- 
ingless.    Hence,  further,  the  One  and  the  Many  must  be 
both  dependent  upon  and  independent  of  each  other.     1  hey 
must  exist  in  themselves,  and  nevertheless  exist  only  in  virtue 
of  their  relation  to  each  other  in  a  whole  which  is  at  once 
constituted  by  them  and  constitutive  of  them. 

But,  it  may  well  be  asked,  does  this  not  also  imply  that 
philosophy  starts  from  and  deals  with  a  self-contradiction. 
It  depends,  I  shall  try  to  show,  on  the  meaning  of    indiv.du- 
alitv  "  of  dependence  and  independence,  of  real  being  and  of 
relation.     In  all  cases  it  is  the  problem  of  philosophy  to 
explain  this  apparent  enigma.     It  is  not  to  show  that  this 
view  of  the  individuality  and  reality  of  the  whole  and  of  all 
its  elements  is  true.    We  have  seen  that  philosophy  postu- 
lates this  view  of  truth  and  reality  in  attempting  to  be  a 
coherent  or  systematic  doctrine.    Nor  is  the  postulate  a  mere 
a  priori  assumption,   unsustained  by  experience.     On  tht 
contrary,  there  is  no  department  of  experience  which  does 
not  contain,  or  rather  consist  of,  instances  of  the  unity  of  the 
diverse,  and  of  the  diversity  or  complexity  of  the  One.     1  tie 
problem  confronts  ordinary  thought  on  every  side,  only  it 
ignores  it,  and  it  is  presented  in  every  one  of  the  arts  and 

n6593 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

sciences.  Let  me  exemplify  this  fact  by  citing  one  or  two 
examples.  When  four  voices  sing  together  the  notes 
C  E  G  C,  or  G  C  D,  or  D  F  A,  harmony  ensues.  Now  har- 
mony Is  not  mere  unison,  nor  Is  It  mere  multiplicity.  It  Is  a 
single  effect  In  which  all  the  voices  are  fused  Into  unity,  but 
the  fusion  does  not  annul  the  differences  nor  destroy  the  In- 
dividuality of  the  voice.  The  Individual  harmony  consists 
of  individual  voices  each  of  which  Is  enriched  by  Its  relations 
and  Intensified  In  Its  beauty. 

It  Is  evident  that  the  same  holds  of  a  piece  of  music  as  a 
whole.  It  consists  of  sequent  movements,  the  first  of  which 
passes  away  to  make  room  for  Its  successor,  and  yet  the  char- 
acter of  the  movements  which  come  last  depends  upon— that 
Is,  somehow  carries  within— what  wxnt  before,  and  con- 
tinuity—nay, unity— remains  by  means  of  the  succession. 

Every  work  of  art  exhibits  the  same  character  of  being  a 
One  in  value  of  the  Many,  and  presents  the  same  problem. 
A  turret  depends  for  Its  artistic  value  upon  the  place  it  occu- 
pies In  the  edifice;  and  so  does  the  artistic  value  of  the 
edifice.  Each  glv^es  and  borrows  Its  significance  and  worth 
from  the  other,  and  yet  each  has  its  own  meaning.  So  It  Is 
also  with  a  picture  or  a  poem.  Both  the  parts  and  the  whole 
have  their  Individual  being  and  value,  and  yet  these  depend 
on  their  relation  to  one  another  In  the  whole. 

When  we  turn  from  the  arts  to  the  sciences  and  to  philos- 
ophy—to systematized  knowledge— the  same  truth  holds. 
The  meaning  of  a  statement  depends  upon  its  context  and  all 
its  cognitive  value.  A  statement  may  be  rendered  meaning- 
less by  changing  Its  context;  and  truth  itself  becomes  error 
when  it  Is  placed  out  of  ''the  appropriate  universe  of  dis- 
course." 

Nevertheless  the  unity  of  the  systematic  truth  Is  not 
obtained  by  mere  fusion.    Every  element  in  it  retains  Its  own 

[660] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

value,  and  makes  its  own  contribution  to  the  whole.  When 
the  mathematician,  for  Instance,  proves  a  theorem  in  geom- 
etry he  Is  engaged  In  demonstrating  one,  and  only  one,  truth : 
e.g.,  that  the  angles  of  a  triangle  are  together  equal  to  two 
right  angles.  But  the  single  proof  of  a  single  truth  somehow 
consists  of  many  truths,  and  these  are  at  once  independent 
and  Interdependent.  They  are  Independent  in  that  they  can- 
not be  done  without,  and  nothing  can  replace  them  or  per- 
form their  function  In  the  proof;  they  are  Interdependent  in 
so  far  as  none  of  them  has  either  significance  or  value  except 
by  reference  to  one  another  and  to  the  single  truth  they  sub- 
serve. 

In  short,  the  testimony  of  rational  experience  to  the  real- 
ity and  the  interdependence,  to  the  individuality  and  to  the 
essential  and  even  constitutive  Interrelation  of  the  Many  and 
the  One,  is  universal.  The  mere  Many  of  the  pluralist  and 
the  mere  One  of  the  absolutist  are  alike  nothing  more  nor 
less  than  fictions.  Experience  gives  no  example  of  them. 
They  are  the  results  of  the  abstract  treatment  of  experience. 

It  follows,  therefore,  that  the  Interpretation  of  experi- 
ence, which  philosophy  Is,  must  accept  this  apparent  enigma. 
Its  problem  Is  not  to  show  whether,  but  how,  this  can  be  pos- 
sible—to maintain  the  reality  both  of  the  One  and  the  Many, 
and  to  reconcile  in  its  theory  what  Is  already  reconciled  in 
reality. 

But  to  maintain  this  view  of  philosophy,  and  to  carry  it 
out  Into  Its  results,  is  to  challenge  a  formidable  array  of 
abstractions.  For,  as  we  have  already  seen,  the  tissue  of 
reality  is  torn  by  human  knowledge  and  Its  seamless  raiment 
rent  asunder.  We  convert  differences  into  contradictions, 
and  Isolate  and  fix  our  distinctions;  and,  in  consequence,  we 
find  the  differences  irreconcilable.  The  reality  and  indepen- 
dence of  the  Many  is  assumed  to  Imply  that  they  are  exclu- 

1:660 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

sive;  and  any  degree  of  community  of  existence  is  held,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  to  destroy  their  individuality.  The  sway 
of  abstractions  is  very  wide. 

Nevertheless  I  believe,  as  I  have  said,  that  if  there  be  any 
movement  of  thought  in  this  twentieth  century  which  spe- 
cially characterizes  its  mission  and  promises  significant  re- 
sults, it  is  that  of  first  exposing  and  then  rejecting  these 
abstract  opposites.  It  is,  in  one  word,  to  repudiate  the 
categories— what  Kant  by  a  new  abstraction  called  the  Cate- 
gories of  the  Understanding,  which  are  the  categories  of  ex- 
ternal and  of  both  contingent  and  necessary  relation.  It  is 
to  reject  in  toto  the  vlew^  that  the  reality  or  individuality  of 
anything  can  consist  in  or  depend  upon  Its  Isolation.  It  Is  to 
discover  that  to  negate  Is  not  to  contradict,  and  that  to  afiirm 
is  not  to  reduce  into  mere  sameness.  On  the  other  hand,  it 
Is  not  to  say  that  reality  consists  of  relations;  but  It  is  to  say 
that  It  is  not  independent  of  relations,  and  that  if  relations 
are  abolished  nothing  whatsoever  remains.  It  is  to  hold 
steadfast  to  the  truth  so  plainly  illustrated  in  every  work  of 
art,  which  consists  at  all  times  of  individual  parts  every  one 
of  which  has  its  own  character  and  function,  and  which  nev- 
ertheless is  dependent  for  both  its  character  and  Its  function 
upon  the  work  of  art  as  a  whole.  For,  whether  we  can  ex- 
plain it  or  not,  a  piece  of  music  does  consist  of  individual 
notes,  and  not  of  mere  relations;  and  yet  if  the  relations  be- 
tween the  several  notes  be  annulled  they  are  changed,  and  no 
music  remains.  And  whether  we  can  explain  it  or  not,  every 
rational  judgment,  true  or  false,  makes  one  affirmation,  and 
that  affirmation  contains  a  diversity  of  elements. 

But  if  this  be  the  special  mission  of  the  philosophy  of  the 
twentieth  century,  it  must  be  admitted  that  the  promise  of  its 
fulfilment  is,  so  far,  faint.  Its  exposure  of  the  necessary 
failure  of  the  one-sided  assumptions  of  both  pluralism  and 

[662;] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

abstract  absolutism  is  incomplete.  It  has  not  taken  to  heart 
that  experience  furnishes  no  example  of  either  mere  unity  or 
mere  diversity,  and  that  these  rival  theories  have  pure  fic- 
tions for  their  premises.  Hence  it  has  not  repudiated  either 
the  method  or  the  aim  of  these  abstract  doctrines.  It  is  con- 
tinuing the  attempt  to  bring  the  One  and  the  Many  together, 
instead  of  proceeding  from  the  presupposition  that  they  al- 
ways are  together.  Its  process  is  either  synthetic  or  ana- 
lytic; synthetic  in  so  far  as  it  seeks  to  proceed  from  the  mere 
Many;  analytic  in  so  far  as  it  seeks  to  proceed  from  the  mere 
One.  It  does  not  begin  with  the  conception  of  system,  of 
reality  as  a  concrete  element,  nor  proceed  to  observe  its 
growth  or  evolution,  by  which  unity  becomes  more  deep  and 
significant  and  the  diversity  of  the  parts  more  clear. 

Let  me  illustrate  this  truth  in  the  first  place  with  regard 
to   knowledge.      The   subject   of  knowledge— namely,   the 
finite,  rational  self— is  still  regarded  as  a  res  completa;  and 
the  object  which  the  subject  seeks  to  know  is  regarded  as 
another  res  covipleta.     The  problem  of  knowledge,  there- 
fore, assumes  the  form  of  showing  how  they  can  be  brought 
together.    And,  further,  it  is  assumed,  though  with  a  confi- 
dence sharply  shaken,  that  the  way  of  bringing  them  together 
is  to  resolve  the  one  into  the  other,  or,  in  other  words,  to 
abolish  the  difference  between  them.     And  if  we  have  de- 
spaired of  resolving  the  subject  into  its  object  by  the  way  of 
materialism,  we  have,  on  the  other  hand,  not  repudiated  the 
opposite  method  of  resolving  the  world  into  the  subjective 
experience  of  one  or  more  subjects.     Subjective  idealism  is 
still  in  vogue,  for  we  say  that  reality  is  experience,  and  in 
panpsychism  the  monadism  of  Leibnitz  is  being  resuscitated, 
so  that  all  reality  Is  made  to  consist  of  what  one  may  call 
spiritual  points,  which  have  only  Intensive  magnitude  and  no 
''body"  except  their  own  activities. 


»     -A'-  "  "         •-•__ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

It  is  true  that  philosophers  now  speak  of  subject-object, 
and  will  even  admit  that  spirit  and  nature  are  somehow  cor- 
relates; but  only  the  most  limited  use  is  made  of  the  concep- 
tion. And  when  it  is  affirmed  that  reality  is  experience, 
"experience"  is  allowed  to  remain  utterly  ambiguous  so  as  to 
carry  either  an  objective  or  a  subjective  reference  at  will. 
Or  when  it  is  explained,  as  for  instance  by  Mr.  Bradley,  ex- 
perience, and  therefore  reality,  is  said  to  consist  of  feelings, 
thought  and  volitions,  and  subjective  idealism  reappears. 

That  little  use  is  made  of  the  conception  subject-object 
beyond  the  admission  that  reality  is  somehow  spiritual,  is  evi- 
dent from  the  fact  that  the  psychologist,  and  also  the  episte- 
mologist,  not  only  distinguish  but  separate  the  functions  of 
mind  and  things.  The  world  of  reality  presents  the  data  for 
mind,  and  mind  then  makes  the  knowledge.  But  the  world 
cannot  give  until  the  mind  takes,  and  the  mind  cannot  take 
until  the  world  gives;  and  there  is  no  priority  of  any  kind, 
either  temporal  or  logical.  The  statement  that  reality  is 
experience  is  meant  to  convey  their  intrinsic  correlation.  But 
the  statement  is  allowed  to  remain  vague;  and  experience  is, 
after  all,  made  to  belong  exclusively  to  the  subject.  It  is  his 
living  conation  and  cognition,  and  the  object  world  is  its 
product;  and  the  idealism  which  practically  all  philosophers 
now  profess  becomes  a  doctrine  which  reduces  reality  either 
into  phenomena  of  consciousness,  such  as  thoughts,  feelings 
and  volitions,  or  into  spiritual  monads,  more  or  less  confused 

personalities. 

But  consciousness  cannot  be  active— that  is  to  say,  it  can- 
not be  consciousness— except  in  relation  to  objects,  and  the 
data  of  knowledge  cannot  be  the  results  of  knowing.  Hence 
the  function  of  the  real  in  the  act  of  knowing  must  be  re- 
stored, and  consciousness,  with  all  its  activities,  must  be  its 
activity  as  consciousness,  and  as  a  consciousness  which  is  in- 

[664] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

dividual.     We  must  make  room  for  the  function  of  both 
mind  and  the  world  in  knowledge,  and  maintain  that,  as  sep- 
arate, they  can  neither  do  nor  be  anything.     Knowledge 
proceeds  neither  from  minds  nor  from  objects.    It  is  the  self- 
revelation  of  the  whole  which  comprises  both,  and  is  both  in 
their  interaction.    However  true  it  may  be  that  experience  is 
subjective,  personal,  private  to  every  individual  finite  spirit,  it 
is  still  a  consciousness  which  has  contents,  which  exists  only 
by  reference  to  it,  and  which  cannot  make  it.     To  account 
for  knowledge  we  must  assume  a  reality  which  is  wider  than 
either  subjects  or  objects,  because  it  comprehends  both,  and 
neither  is  except  in  relation  to  its  opposite.    To  begin  with, 
either  is  comparable  to  the  process  of  a  mathematician  who 
looks  for  a  product  by  beginning  with  one  of  the  factors, 
starting  from  either  6  or  j  in  order  to  arrive  at  42.    Know- 
ledge is  the  result  of  the  interaction  of  the  two  aspects  of 
reality  which  we  not  only  distinguish  but  separate  and  then 
strive  to  bring  together.    We  endeavor  to  find  a  way  out  of 
consciousness  and  into  a  relation  with  facts,  whereas  we  are 
at  all,  and  are  conscious,  only  in  virtue  of  our  relation  to  the 
reality  which  comprehends  both  our  minds  and  the  facts. 

But  if  this  is  true  we  shall  cease  to  speak  of  the  self  and 
the  not-self,  of  subjects  and  objects,  of  mind  and  matter,  of 
soul  and  body,  of  spirit  and  nature,  of  God  and  man  as  first 
existing  apart,  and  then  brought  together  through  the  inter- 
action which  reveals  itself  in  knowledge,  in  the  fine  arts,  in 
morality  and  in  religion;  for  that  interaction  is,  as  we  have 
seen,  impossible  unless  they  are  together.  Our  distinctions 
must  remain  and  the  differences  must  be  real,  and  the  indi- 
viduality and  even  the  personal  privacy  of  the  human  spirit 
be  maintained,  but  they  must  be  maintained  within  the  unity 
of  the  real  which  comprises  both  the  opposites. 

That  the  thought  of  the  present  day  is  making  toward  this 

[665:1 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 
genuine  universal  standpoint  is  not  to  be  doubted.  There  is 
evidence  of  it  especially  in  such  doctrines  as  that  of  the 
"natural-supernaturalism  of  Carlyle,"  in  the  spiritual  real- 
ism of  Goethe,  of  Wordsworth;  in  the  indefinite  view  of 
the  immanence  or  indwelling  of  the  divine  in  nature;  in  the 
repudiation  of  materialism  by  natural  science  and  its  clearing 
consciousness  of  the  abstract  character  of  its  hypotheses  and 
task;  in  the  growing  conviction  of  the  intrinsic  interaction  of 
man  and  society ;  in  the  growing  suspicion  of  both  individu- 
alistic and  socialistic  theories,  and  in  the  thinning  down  of 
the  partition  between  the  secular  and  the  sacred,  so  that  man 
finds  his  duty,  which  is  his  spiritual  opportunity  and  privi- 
lege in  every  station,  and  believes  that  every  service  of  man 
may  be  the  service  of  God.  The  sense  of  man's  affimty  with 
the  universe  is  deepening  in  every  way,  and  the  universe  it- 
self seems  to  acquire  a  spiritual  significance  because  man  is 

an  element  in  it.  , .  ,      ,  -i         u 

The  justification  of  this  new  attitude  which  philosophy 
must  furnish  is  difficult.    But  psychology  on  the  one  side,  and 
logic  on  the  other,  are  preparing  the  way  for  the  new  meta- 
physic     The  former  finds  no  evidence  that  mind,  however 
spontaneous,  can  create  its  own  content.    Even  imagination, 
when  it  is  more  free,  only  selects  and  rearranges.     If  it 
creates  its  heaven  as  it  pleases,  it  must  borrow  its  material, 
as  Hume  has  shown,  from  the  present  world,  making  its 
streets  of  gold  and  gates  of  pearl,  etc.    All  knowledge  is 
both  relative  and  anthropomorphic,  just  because  both  man 
and  his  world  are  necessary  factors  in  the  function  of  know- 
ing.   If  man  is  and  must  be  spontaneous  in  his  cogmtive  and 
conative  activities,  it  is  not  because  he  is  separate  from  the 
world.    In  isolation  he  is  helpless.    As  he  cannot  lift  a  hand 
or  move  a  foot  except  by  means  of  the  resistance  which  is 
also  the  help  of  the  physical  cosmos,  so  he  can  neither  know 

1666-2 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

nor  will,  and  is  in  fact  only  a  name  or  nothingness  in  his  iso- 
lation. The  world  is  not  a  hindrance  to  man's  "spontaneous" 
spiritual  activities,  but  their  indispensable  condition.  In 
truth,  his  knowledge  is  the  activity  of  the  real  in  and  by  him ; 
but  it  is  his  knowledge  none  the  less,  for  by  it  he  comprises 
the  real. 

On  the  other  hand,  his  affinity  to  and  dependence  upon  his 
cosmos  is  also  its  dependence  upon  him.  The  cosmos  of  the 
materialist  is  as  inconceivable  as  the  knowing  subject  or  de- 
tached self  of  the  abstract  idealist.  If  mind  is  not  except  in 
its  relation  to  the  object,  neither  is  the  object  except  in  rela- 
tion to  the  subject.  The  dependence  is  interdependence,  and 
the  real  is  never  only  one  of  its  aspects.  It  is  neither  natural 
nor  spiritual  if  these  are  considered  apart. 

Nor  does  the  dependence  of  the  world  of  objects  on  mind 
mean  that  mind,  as  we  know  it,  makes  them,  and  in  making 
them  infects  them  with  its  own  subjectivity.    The  objects  do 
not  turn  out  on  examination  to  be  nothing  but  experience,  if 
by  experience  is  meant— as  it  ought  to  mean— thoughts,  feel- 
ings and  volitions,  which  somehow  become  substantiated  into 
these  ambiguous  realities,  hovering  between  being  and  non- 
being,  which  we  call  phenomena.    There  is  no  such  thing  as 
a  "world  of  truth"  which  stands  over  against  things  in  them- 
selves,  and  mediates  between  them  and  minds,  being,   as 
Lotze  called  them,  "a  replica"  of  the  real.    The  problem  of 
discovering  the  connection  between  ideas  and  their  objects, 
and  all  the  attempted  solutions  of  the  problem  by  making  the 
former  images  or  symbols  or  representatives  of  the  latter, 
or  the  latter  reifications  of  the  former,  are  as  unmeaning 
and  futile  as  the  problem  of  the  relation  of  the  world  of 
fairies  to  the  world  of  every-day  life.    There  are  minds  and 
there  are  things,  and  because  they  are  elements  of  one  reality 
they  interact.     During  their  interaction  there  is  knowing, 

n6673 


i 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

and  the  result  of  the  activity  of  knowing  is  to  modify  the 
subject  which  knows  so  that  it  can  repeat  the  process,  even 
when  the  objects  which  first  contributed  to  it  are  not  present. 
But  there  is  no  such  result  as  a  concatenated  system  of  ideas, 
nor  even  a  single  idea  that  has  any  permanence  or  bemg  of 
its  own.  The  relation  of  minds  and  of  things  is  direct  m  the 
last  resort,  and  the  relation  between  them  is  constitutive  of 

both.  1  r       • 

But  this,  it  will  be  said,  makes  reality  depend  for  its  exis- 
tence upon  being  known,  and  at  the  least  derive  a  new  stage 
of  existence  and  a  higher  manifestation  of  itself  from  and 
through  man's  mind.    In  that  case  must  not  the  act  of  know- 
ing defeat  itself?    It  is  the  object  of  knowing  to  apprehend 
facts  as  they  are;  but  that  is  surely  not  possible  if  the  act  ot 
knowing  changes  them.     Knowing  them  changes  them,   I 
should  answer,  and  defeats  thereby  its  own  purpose,  only  it 
we  continue  to  assume  the  dualistic  point  of  view  which,  at 
present,  we  are  endeavoring  to  repudiate,  and  continue  to 
treat  them  as  separate  existences  brought  together.    But  the 
difficulty  does  not  arise  if  knowing  is  neither  the  function  of 
mind  nor  of  objects  as  apart,  but  of  the  reality  which  com- 
prises them  both  as  elements  and  aspects.    From  this  latter 
point  of  view  reality  may  be  shown  to  enrich  itself,  to  allow 
fuller  being,  to  set  free  and  to  realize  new  potentialities 
through  the  cognitive  activities  we  have  been  attributing  to 
the  self,  but  which  belong  to  it  as  comprising  the  self. 

An  illustration  may  indicate  the  possibility  of  the  truth  of 
the  view  I  am  trying  to  express. 

The  physicist  is  supposed  to  give  an  account  of  sound.  He 
tells  us  that  it  is  wave  movement.  But  the  least  analysis  will 
show  that  he  professes  no  such  thing.  He  explains  only  one 
of  the  conditions  of  sound.  Apart  from  the  psychological 
structure  of  the  human  organism,  and  also  apart  from  the 

[668] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

presumably  non-physical  but  psychological  structure  of  his 
consciousness,  there  is  no  sound.  Delete  any  one  of  these  three 
distinguishable  elements  — the  physical,  physiological,  or 
psychical— there  would  be  no  sound  and  the  universe  would 
be  silent.  Sound  Is  not  analyzable  Into  any  one  of  these  factors, 
nor  attributed  to  any  one  of  them  rather  than  to  the  others; 
and  when  all  the  elements  of  a  unity  are  necessary  there  Is  a 
true  sense  In  which  It  Is  not  possible  to  give  priority  to  any 
one  of  them.  On  the  other  hand.  It  Is  true  that  the  physical 
conditions  of  sound — the  wave  movements  produced  by  the 
pressing  down  of  the  keys  of  the  organ  and  the  filling  of  the 
pipes  with  wind— gain  new  significance  and  value  when  the 
organ  is  played  by  a  great  artist  and  the  physical  conditions 
are  subordinated  to  the  musical  purposes  of  a  great  com- 
poser. The  coming  In  upon  the  scene  of  the  musician's  soul 
reveals  a  new  range  of  meaning  and  beauty  which  before 
were  dormant  In  the  physical  structure  of  the  natural  world; 
and  reality  as  a  whole,  which  has  produced  and  contributed 
to  the  Instruction  and  which  comprises  the  musician,  assumes 
through  him  a  new  way  of  being.  And  yet,  though  without 
him  there  can  be  no  music,  we  cannot  attribute  the  musical 
effect  to  him  alone,  as  we  do  knowledge,  an  experience,  to  the 
activities  of  the  subject.  Without  his  context  he  also  Is  help- 
less. The  distinction  of  meum  and  tuum  does  not  hold.  The 
musician's  spontaneous— or,  as  we  say,  creative — power  is 
conditioned  by  the  real  world  as  a  whole  In  which  he  lives 
and  moves  and  has  his  being,  and  at  the  same  time  the  real 
world  needs  him  in  order  to  realize  the  significance  even  of 
its  natural  elements. 

This  illustration  suggests  the  possibility  of  maintaining 
that  finite  minds  by  their  cognitive  and  conative  activities 
have  a  more  significant  function  In  relation  to  the  world  of 
reality  than  that  of  ^'manifesting"  or  ^'expressing"  its  mean- 

[6693 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

ing  in  the  way  of  truth;  and  that  their  relation  to  it  is  more 
intimate  than  can  be  accounted  for  by  any  theory  which  at- 
tributes their  activities  to  themselves  alone,  and  which  makes 
consciousness  contain  an  idle,  epistemological  rephca  of  real- 
ity    If  in  order  that  there  may  be  music,  or  any  other  of  the 
productions  of  fine  art,  reality  as  a  whole  comprising  the 
artist  must  be  effectively  present,  so  reality  as  a  whole  must 
be  that  which  thinks  and  wills.     Not  that  minds  in  willing 
and  knowing  are  mere  instruments  upon  which  the  world  of 
reality  plays,  or  by  which  it  gains  better  and  fuller  expres- 
sion     The  idea  of  "instrument"  is  inadequate  to  the  occa- 
sion   and  we  obscure  the  truth  and  lapse  back  into  dualism 
when  we  represent  minds  as  operated  upon.    It  is  the  mind 
which  introduces  the  purpose.     In  the  case  of  both  the  mu- 
sician and  the  scientific  man  or  philosopher  the  natural  ele- 
ments of  the  cosmos  are  in  a  sense  subordinated  to  their 
purpose;  and  yet  the  purpose  is  not  alien  to  the  natural  cos- 
mos, or  superimposed  upon  it  from  without.     For  nature  s 
own  potencies  are  realized  in  and  by  them,  and  in  him  they 
acquire  themselves  a  better  and  fuller  way  of  existence. 

But  in  that  case  we  must  start  from  a  new  hypothesis  as  to 
the  nature  of  reality.     We  must  no  longer  speak  of  it  as 
either  natural  or  spiritual,  nor,  in  order  to  account  for  it, 
endeavor  to  make  the  natural  disappear  in  the  spiritual. 
Nature  as  merely  natural  is  now  discovered  to  be  only  a 
fragment  of  reality,  even  of  reality  as  finite  minds  know  it. 
It  is  and  remains  "natural,"  for  it  is  the  condition  of  the 
spiritual  activities,  which  condition  is  fulfilled  in  the  finite 
minds  into  which  it  breaks.    The  facts  which  we  speak  of  as 
given  in  actual  experience  are  real  as  manifesting  themselves 
in  finite  minds.    ReaUty  has  this  dual  character.    It  functions 
in  the  thinking  and  volition  of  men  as  truly  as  in  the  form 
and  the  color  of  plants.     Reality  has  a  dual  character,  or 

[670:1 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

rather  it  is  natural-spiritual.  We  may  distinguish  but  we 
cannot  separate  its  elements.  Hence  mind  and  reality  do  not 
need  to  be  brought  together,  and  thought  has  not  the  impos- 
sible task  before  it  of  going  out  of  itself  to  reality.  It  is  by 
comprising  the  real :  and  the  real  exhibits  its  full  and  true 
nature  only  in  the  activities  by  which  truth  and  goodness  are 
attained.  When  mind  appears  on  the  scene  the  real  breaks 
into  knowledge  as  well  as  into  music,  and  into  moral  lives  as 
well  as  statutes  and  stately  edifices.  It  remains  natural,  but 
it  is  a  nature  with  spiritual  potencies  that  break  out  into 
actuality  in  man.  He  is  nothing  apart  from  it.  He  is  con- 
tinuous with  it.  He  is  effective  as  mind  and  will  in  the  de- 
gree in  which  as  subject  he  is  saturated  with  its  truth  and 
purpose.  For  his  purpose  is  a  revelation  and  liberation  of 
Nature's  purpose.  He  is  no  external  addendum,  but  her 
product.  But  when  he  appears,  being  her  highest  product, 
he  recoils  upon  her,  sublates  her  lower  forms  of  being,  as- 
similates them  with  and  incorporates  them  into  activities 
which  are  his  activities  without  ceasing  to  be  Nature's  own. 
There  is  a  psychological  problem  for  which,  so  far,  no 
solution  has  been  found.  It  is  that  of  the  relation  of  soul 
and  body.  Psychologists  at  present  propose  one  of  two 
theories.  They  suggest  a  panpsychism  which  converts  all 
bodies  into  souls,  or  a  parallelism  between  them  and  their 
phenomena.  The  former  theory  introduces  more  difficulties 
than  it  solves,  and,  so  far,  has  not  shown  itself  worthy  of 
serious  discussion;  the  latter  confesses  its  failure  in  that  it 
only  states  the  problem  and,  in  fact,  offers  no  solution  of  it. 
If  our  criticisms  have  any  validity,  no  solution  of  this  prob- 
lem is  possible ;  and  it  is  impossible  because  it  contains  a  surd. 
It  is  like  the  problem  of  proving  that  2x2  =  91,  which 
would  baffle  all  mathematicians;  or  of  inventing  a  perpetually 
moving  machine,  which  must  baffle  the  physical  inventor;  or 

1:671:] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

like  saying,  "Why  should  we  be  moral?",  which  must  baffle 
the  moralist.     The  mathematician,  physicist  and  moralist 
who  know  what  they  are  about  will  not  ask  these  questions. 
Nor  will  the  psychologist  endeavor  to  relate-th^t  is,  to 
brin^  together  in  thought-what  he  assumes  to  be  separate 
in  existence.     He  will  rather  take  to  heart  what  Aristotle 
has  said  of  such  a  dualism.    He  will  regard  the  soul  as  the 
highest  expression,  the  full  reality,  the  evipyeia  of  the  body 
-not  deleting  it,  nor  supplanting  It,  nor  yet  subordinated  to 
it  as  a  mere  consequence  or  effect,  but  rather  as  that  in  which 
the  body  exhibits  and  realizes  its  full  being,  and  in  doing  so 
proves  Its  Intrinsic  spiritual  potentialities.     In  man  also  we 
find  exemplified  always,  not  a  soul  plus  a  body,  not  merely 
natural  or  physical  and  superadded  spiritual  powers,  but  one 
being  whose  spiritual  activities  are  at  once  conditioned  by, 
and  sublate,  or  take  up,  the  so-called  natural  elements.    The 
problem  of  the  psychologist  as  at  present  stated  is  insoluble 
because  he  is  unjust  to  his  body  and  Ignores  Its  function  m  all 
volition  and  thought,  attributing  cognition  and  volition  to  a 
mind  In  isolation,  mind  as  merely  subjective,  of  the  existence 
of  which  there  is  no  least  Item  of  evidence  In  any  experience. 
Man,  like  the  cosmos.  Is  nature  at  its  highest  and  best, 
and  nature  is  not  a  dead  mechanism  and  mere  opposite  of 
spirit,  any  more  than  It  is  spiritual  apart  from  mind.     The 
beauty  and  truth  and  goodness  which  appear  when  man  is 
upon  the  scene  are  not  only  his,  but  nature's  also.     And 
spirit  does  not  dwell  in  it  as  in  a  dead  husk,  but  Is  its  own 
Intrinsic  power.     This,  it  seems  to  me,  is  the  view  toward 
which  recent  thought  is  gradually  moving.     It  Is  the  theme 
and  the  inspiration  of  the  greatest  poetry  of  our  time,  from 
Goethe  and  Wordsworth  to  Robert  Browning,  and  it  is  the 
aspiration  of  the  highest  morality  and  of  the  most  elevated 
and  reflective  religious  consciousness  of  the  present  age.     It 

[672] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Is  the  special  mission  of  philosophy  to  demonstrate  the  valid- 
ity of  this  view,  and  make  good  the  truth  of  the  one  radiant 
ideal. 

There  are  evidences  that  philosophy  has  entered  upon  this 
task.  But  the  task  Is  great  and  very  difficult.  It  Implies  not 
merely  revulsion  from  the  consequences  of  the  abstractions 
which  have  hitherto  obstructed  Its  path,  but  the  most  fun- 
damental revolution  of  all  the  revolutions  of  the  world  of 
mind.  It  implies  a  change  of  method.  It  must  start  from 
a  different  hypothesis  and  must  therefore  reinterpret  every 
fact  in  the  light  of  this  hypothesis.  I  must  content  myself  at 
present  by  merely  indicating  the  main  obstacles  which 
obstruct  its  path  as  it  enters  upon  its  problem,  all  of  them 
due  to  the  abstractions  which  we  have  substantiated  Into 
contradictory  opposltes. 

The  first  of  these  are  logical,  and  therefore  metaphysical 
also,  or  ontological.  1  acknowledge  that  it  is  precisely  in  its 
logical  doctrine  that  modern  philosophy  has  made  its  great- 
est advance  toward  the  adoption  of  this  point  of  view,  which, 
in  fact,  is  that  of  spiritual  realism  or  concrete  absolutism. 
Nevertheless,  even  at  Its  best.  It  is  not  free  from  the  en- 
tanglements which  issue  from  the  use  of  the  external  cate- 
gories, which  Kant  called  the  Categories  of  the  Understand- 
ing. That  it  is  not  content  w^ith  their  use  and  that  it  aspires 
to  a  better  is  illustrated  by  its  appeal  to  intuition.  Intuition 
is  found  to  achieve  what  lies  beyond  the  power  of  the  under- 
standing. It  grasps  things  in  their  veritable  unity:  it  does 
not  obliterate  differences,  but  it  makes  them  harmonious  or 
transparent— to  employ  its  metaphors.  It  bridges  the  gulf 
between  knowledge  and  reality,  and  brings  mind  into  imme- 
diate illuminating  contact  with  that  which  is.  But  it  does  this 
at  the  expense  of  all  method.  Its  operations  are  mystical 
and  miraculous.     It  explains  by  means  of  the  unintelligible. 

n673n 


\ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

It  has  no  value  except  in  so  far  as  it  expresses  discontent 
with  the  external  methods  of  "the  mere  understanding, 
which,  after  all,  it  cannot  supplant  and  must  merely  supple- 

ment. 

The  method  of  intuitlonism  is  too  easy.     It  is  like  the 
optimism  which  finds  that  all  is  right  with  the  world  by 
denying  or  ignoring  its  unhappiness  and  wickedness.    It  can- 
not help  until  it  turns  back  upon  the  topics  of  the  understand- 
ing,  and  reveals  the  unity  within  its  opposites,  and  shows  it 
to  be  intuitive  in  the  double  sense  that  it  always  grasps  unity 
and  is  always  in  actual  touch  with  the  real.     But  owing    to 
the  domination  of  these  external  categories  the  judgment  is 
still  treated  as  if  it  were  the  result  either  of  a  purely  analytic 
or  of  a  purely  synthetic  process,  and  reasoning  as  if  it  were 
either  deductive  or  inductive.     The  predicate  is  either  at- 
tached to  the  subject  as  a  new  thing,  or  it  is  a  mere  repeti- 
tion of  a  part  of  the  subject.     In  the  first  case  the  judg- 
ment is  a  mere  accretion  of  elements;  in  the  second,  a  mere 
tautology.     In  the  first  case  it  cannot  be  true;  in  the  sec- 
ond it  can  have  no  meaning.     Moreover,  both  of  these 
processes  rest  upon  a  false  supposition  as  to  the  nature  of 
the  relation  of  the  part  of  the  judgment,  as  well  as  of  the 
parts  themselves.     Their  agreement  is  assumed  to  mean 
their  identical  and  indistinguishable  sameness-bare  unity; 
their  disagreement  or  negation,  to  be  contradiction  and  repul- 
sion.    In  no  way,  therefore,  can  either  of  these  theories 
represent  the  judgment-that  is,  any  rational  opinion-as 
concrete;  and  the  process  of  judgment  as  beginning  in  the 
subject  with  what  is  already  a  system,  and  exposing  the  na- 
ture of  the  system  in  the  course  of  judging  and  reasoning, 
distinguishing  its  elements  and  deepening  its  unity  by  the 
same  movement. 

Again,  on  the  epistemological  side,  the  "that,"  or  real 

CM] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

being,  of  the  object  of  knowledge  is  held  to  be  distinct  from 
its  "what,"  or  its  qualities;  and  judgment  is  made  to  consist 
in  bringing  these  together.  And,  further,  as  I  have  already 
indicated,  knowledge  itself  is  separated  into  forced  abstrac- 
tions, and  the  content  is  assumed  to  come  from  the  data, 
while  the  form  is  supplied  by  the  activity  of  the  subject.  The 
consequence  is  that  knowledge  and  reality  themselves  remain 
in  inexplicable  opposition,  and  truth  is  in  fundamental  contra- 
diction with  itself.  For  it  is  assumed  that  to  agree  with  or  to 
represent  the  real  as  it  is,  it  must  cease  to  be  as  truth,  and  be 
merged  in  the  real,  or  else  be  transmuted  in  an  unknowable 
way  by  an  unknowable  Absolute. 

But  such  results  indicate  the  need,  not  of  escaping  from 
methodical  thought  by  means  of  mystic  and  methodless  in- 
tuition, but  of  recognizing  that  thought  is  always  systematic 
and  its  object  always  a  One  in  the  Many,  and  therefore  of 
ceasing  to  set  the  dualistic  problems  which  baffle  all  attempts 
at  solution. 

The  second  main  obstacle,  and  possibly  the  more  serious 
in  practice,  may  be  called  ethical.  It  is  assumed,  to  put  the 
matter  as  directly  and  concisely  as  I  can,  that  the  ethical 
world  will  disappear  if  man  is  not  the  genuine  creator  of  his 
own  actions,  or  absolutely  spontaneous;  and,  further,  that 
his  creative  power  or  spontaneity  must  mean  that  he  stands 
apart  and  absolutely  isolated  from  the  so-called  outer  world. 
He  is  a  pure  subject,  as  represented  by  Kant,  ontologically 
separate  from  all  objects,  and  even  from  himself  when  he  is 
the  object  of  his  own  knowledge— his  knowing  self  falling 
into  the  noumenal,  and  his  known  self  into  the  phenomenal 
world.  We  are  jealous,  and  rightly  jealous,  of  our  own  in- 
trinsic individuality,  and  assume  that  in  order  to  maintain  it 
we  must  hold  the  world,  so  to  speak,  at  arm's  length  and  ex- 
trude it.  Let  the  outer  conditions,  and  even  our  own  past 
history,  be  what  they  will,  we  must  at  any  moment  have  the 

[675: 


) 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

power  of  acting  upon  it  and  from  it  in  a  manner  that,  for  all 
computation,  must  be  contingent.  "Contingency,"  as  we 
have  seen,  must  be  "let  into  the  heart  of  things."  The  mner 
life  shuts  out  the  outer  world;  or  if  it  shuts  it  in  or  comprises 
it,  it  is  only  in  the  form  of  "experience"-that  is,  of 
thoughts,  feelings  and  volitions-and  its  realities  become 
"phenomena."  We  have  "gone  back  to  Kant,"  and  we  still 
dwell  among  his  contradictions,  for  we  have  not  gone  for- 
ward from  Kant. 

Now  I  have  no  desire  to  minimize  or  to  obscure  In  the 
least  degree  the  privacy  of  personality,  or  the  subjective  and 
intensely  individual  character  of  all  experience.  On  the  con- 
trary,  there  is  no  apparent  excuse  into  which  I  would  not 
follow  the  solipsist  in  this  direction.  All  experience  is  In  the 
fullest  sense  individual,  and  there  is  no  such  thing  as  univer- 
sal experience  in  the  sense  that  one  finite  man  can  think  the 
thoughts  or  will  the  volitions  of  another.  Every  man's 
thoughts  and  every  man's  volitions  are  exclusively  his  own, 
and  no  other's;  they  remain  his  own  even  if  It  be  true,  as  it 
Is,  that  other  men  may  know  the  same  truth  and  will  to  bring 

about  the  same  change. 

When  the  Idealist,  In  endeavoring  to  meet  the  evident 
objections  to  solipsism,  affirms  that  a  man's  mind  is  not  a 
particular  thing,  like  his  pocket-knife,  but  has  a  universal 
nature,  which  makes  his  mind  one  in  Intrinsic  structure,  sub- 
ject to  the  same  laws,  active  in  the  same  manner  as  all  minds, 
or  as  mind  "as  such,"  I  have  no  concern  In  contradicting 
him.  But  such  an  argument  does  not  obviate  the  difficulties 
of  solipsism.  However  universal  In  nature  a  man's  mind 
may  be.  It  does  not  lose  its  intensely  private  and  personal 
character,  and  all  his  experiences  are  his  own  in  a  sense  that 
is  exclusive.  In  other  words,  the  subjective,  personal,  pri- 
vate character  of  experience  remains,  and  every  mind  looks 
at  the  world  with  Its  own  eyes.    Were  all  men,  like  the  gods, 

cm:] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

possessors  of  the  real  truth  of  all  reality,  their  thoughts 
would  still  be  their  own;  and  were  all  human  wills  one  with 
the  will  of  God,  they  would  still  be  personal  wills  and  the 
moral  perfection  would  be  their  own. 

The  reputation  of  the  solipsist  Is  implied  In  his  own  prem- 
ises. There  is  no  solipsist  who  in  making  an  affirmative  does 
not  consider  that  his  affirmation  refers  to,  and  is  an  ideal 
construction  or  representation  of,  reality.  He  is  expressing 
his  own  thoughts  of  the  real,  and  his  thoughts  are  his  own. 
But,  unless  he  confuses  the  results  of  his  thinking  with  that 
about  which  he  is  thinking,  and  the  object  which  he  strives 
to  comprehend  with  the  products  of  his  effort,  he  will  not 
maintain  that  the  real  about  which  he  thinks  is  also  subjec- 
tive. He  cannot  at  the  same  time  profess  that  he  is  express- 
ing the  truth  and  maintain  that  he  is  not  dealing  with  the 
real.  His  thoughts,  however  subjective,  have  an  objective 
reference,  and  however  personal  and  private,  they  are  his 
personal  and  private  conception  of  that  which  is.  Truth, 
affirmation,  negation,  judgment  have  in  every  instance  this 
reference  to  the  real.  The  reference  is  direct  in  every  ex- 
perience, and  the  reference  is  always  to  the  real — that  is,  for 
each  mind,  to  only  one  real. 

Hence  every  solipsist  considers  that  he  knows  the  truth; 
and  It  is  not  possible  to  affirm  or  deny  except  on  this  presup- 
position. The  question  of  agreement  or  disagreement  Is 
subsequent  and  secondary.  What  concerns  us  now  is  the 
universal  and  necessary  character  of  every  experience,  how- 
ever personal.  The  reference  of  a  judgment  is  not  to  a  pri- 
vate real;  not  even  when  he  says,  "This  is  only  my  opinion." 
Even  that  statement  Is  a  statement  of  a  fact.  And  It  is  al- 
leged that  the  result  of  the  dealing  of  different  minds  is  a 
different  experience,  or  as  many  opinions  as  there  are  minds. 
Still,  each  mind  In  every  affirmation  refers  to  what  Is  real,  or 
to  what  his  thought  represents  or  misrepresents. 

1:677: 


s 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Xor  can  it  be  affirmed  that  each  subject  refers  to  a  differ- 
ent reality,  a  reality  infected  with  the  illusions  of  his  own 
thought.  Once  more  it  is  the  result  that  may  be  illusory,  or 
merely  phenomenal.  And,  as  we  have  seen,  the  results  of 
knowing  cannot  be  the  data  of  knowledge;  nor  have  they 
any  existence  except  as  ways  of  the  activity  of  the  cognizing 
subject.  Phenomena  do  not  constitute  a  class  of  existing 
things,  over  and  above  the  subjects  which  know,  and  the  real- 
ity which  the  subjects  endeavor  to  know. 

Thus  every  experience  is  bipolar.  It  is  the  living  relation 
or  interaction  of  two  elements  of  a  reality  which  is  at  once 
spiritual  and  natural.  Knowing  and  willing  is  the  act  of  the 
self  by  means  of  this  world  and  of  the  real  world.  For  no 
existence  can  refer  to  any  other. 

The  question  of  the  agreem.ent  or  disagreement  of  the  dif- 
ferent experiences,  or  of  any  community  between  them,  is 
subsequent  and  secondary  to  the  reference  of  each  experience 
to  the  real,  which  every  judgment  is.  And  it  also  concerns 
reality,  which  is  capable  once  more  of  being  rightly  or 
wrongly  interpreted.  And  the  real  is  in  this  and  every  other 
case  the  criterion  of  what  is  held  to  be  true  or  false.  So  that 
the  reality  also  is  assumed  in  every  experience,  in  every  act 
of  cognition,  to  be  bipolar.  It  is,  and  it  is  capable  of  express- 
ing itself  subjectively  to  the  knowing  mind.  Reality,  we  may 
perhaps  be  allowed  to  say,  expresses  itself  in  many  self-con- 
scious foci  and  in  many  degrees  of  accuracy  and  fullness. 
But  the  presupposition  of  the  real— that  is,  of  one  single 
reality— is  as  inevitable  to  every  subject  as  the  presupposi- 
tion of  his  own  existence. 

When  the  solipsist,  therefore,  affirms  that  every  subject 
has  his  own  experience,  which  is  true,  he  overlooks  the  fact 
that  the  object  with  which  each  experience  deals  or  which  it 
endeavors  to  represent  is  that  which  is.  No  subject  can  as- 
sume that  there  are  as  many  systems  of  reality  as  there  are 

[678] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

interpretations  of  it;  he  denies  to  the  experience  of  others 
that  which  is  essential  to  his  own  and  to  the  very  possibility 

of  experience. 

It  follows  from  this  that  there  is  one  criterion  for  all  ex- 
perience, and  one  ideal.    It  is  reality.    It  is  by  constant  refer- 
ence  to  it  that  he  corrects  and  extends  his  own,  and  affirms 
or  denies  the  truth  of  the  experience  of  others:  for  their 
expressions  of  it  are  also  objects  for  him,  and  parts  of  the 
reality  which  he  endeavors  to  know.    And  the  reference  to 
the  real  is  a  reference  to  the  Absolute-that  is,  to  that  which 
is  all  in  all  and  exists  in  its  own  right.    It  is  by  their  seeming 
congruence  or  incongruence  with  the  presupposed  whole  of 
reality  that  particular  opinions  are  called  true  or  false.    But 
this  is  as  much  as  to  say  that  reality  is  held  to  be  a  systematic 
whole,  within  which  each  particular  fact  has  its  own  place 
and  function.    If  we  work  to  correct  another  person  of  error 
in  any  judgment,  we  do  so  by  compelling  him  to  choose  be- 
tween that  opinion  and  his  interpretation  of  that  which  is 
real.       The   admission   of   a   new   truth   may   compel   us 
to    revise    our   conception   of   the    system   of    reality.  ^  A 
new  hypothesis  may  carry  with  it  a  revolution  in  our  view 
of  reality;  but  the  reality  which  is  the  aim  of  our  intellectual 
attempt,  and  the  criterion  of  the  value  of  its  results,  is  no 
new  reality.    It  is  not  true,  therefore,  that  there  are  as  many 
realities  as  there  are  opinions  of  reality;  although  there  may 
be  as  many  interpretations  of  it  as  there  are  cognitive  sub- 
jects.    On  the  contrary,  each  subject  is  necessarily  assumed 
to  be  from  his  own  standpoint  endeavoring  to  interpret  the 
world  of  reality.    Experience,  false  or  true,  has  otherwise  no 

meaning. 

It  is  this  truth  that  Spinoza  expressed  when  he  said  that 
knowledge  is  adequate  in  the  degree  in  which  the  subject  of 
knowledge  contemplates  objects  stib  specie  aternitatis.  And 
the  moral  life  of  man-that  is,  his  practical  life  when  con- 

[679] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


V 


sidered  in  the  light  of  its  ultimate  issues — gives  an  interesting 
illustration  of  this  truth.  For  morality  also  carries  within  at 
all  times  this  immediate  reference  to  the  Absolute.  The 
action  may  be,  and  always  is,  particular  in  one  of  its  aspects. 
But  it  is  also  a  particularized  universal.  The  right  action  is 
a  specific  affirmation,  and  the  wrong  action  is  a  specific  viola- 
tion, of  a  Universal  Good.  The  right  action  may  be  in  itself 
insignificant— the  mere  giving  of  a  cup  of  cold  water;  but 
being  right,  it  is  what  is  required  in  that  particular  context, 
and  neither  gods  nor  men  can  improve  upon  it.  It  is  the 
particular  reification  or  incarnation  of  the  best.  It  is  doing 
the  work  of  God,  in  the  language  of  religion.  It  is  accord 
with  the  nature  of  things.  And  thereby  it  acquires  inex- 
haustible worth  and  power. 

Hence  issues  the  dignity  of  an  act  which  we  call  good,  and 
the  splendor  which  cannot  be  obscured.  Hence  also  flows 
the  sense  of  unconquerable  strength  which  the  moral  agent 
always  feels  when  he  is  in  his  duty.  The  nature  of  things  is 
at  his  back.  God  is  with  him.  His  will  is  one  with  the 
divine.  It  must  prevail.  Its  language  always  is,  "If  God  be 
w^ith  us,  who  can  be  against  us?" 

Both  in  cognition  and  volition,  therefore,  both  in  know- 
ledge and  in  morality,  once  we  have  freed  ourselves  of  the 
fixed  abstractions  of  the  understanding,  we  find  that  imme- 
diate continuity  with  reality  which  is  our  own  life;  and  the 
service  of  the  true  and  the  good,  being  the  service  of  what  is 
real,  is  the  service  of  freedom  so  perfect  that  it  finds  no- 
where aught  that  can  limit  or  obstruct  it.  The  service  is 
fuller,  the  closer  and  the  wider  our  communion  with  what  is 
real;  and  the  natural  cosmos,  in  all  its  wealth,  is  not  a  limit 
but  a  condition  of  the  life  of  our  own  spirit,  and  the  living 
partner  in  all  our  spiritual  enterprises. 

Henry  Jones. 
n68o3 


\ 


\ 


I  / 


y 


V 


^  «►  «•***■■■ 


'ppr 

't 

I- 

"".{.* 


•e 


This  book  is  due  two  weeks  from  the  last  date  stamped 
helow,  and  if  not  returned  at  or  before  that  t.me  a  fine  of 
five  cents  a  day  will  be  incurred. 

Uitii 

Hi  s-^ 

i 

1 

L 

^ 

1 

■s- 



~- 

1 

U " 

_l — 

f--  ■■ 

i 

1 

1 

■■-! 

1- ■ 

1 



0032190638 


'^-:^ 


i 


^^MS  DO  HOT 


*    V 


/      1 


--^^( 


'm 


^ 


^ 


JOLUMBIA  UNIVERSITY 


0032190638 


This  book  is  due 
hplow.  and  if  not  ret 

two  weeks 

from 
befo 

the  last  date  stamped 

umed  at  or 

re  that  time  a  fine  ot 

five  cents  a  day  will  be  incurred. 

- 

1 

k^l^1 

-^^-^^\ 

^ 

• 

1                     ^ — - 

+- 

i 

« 

■ 

— 1 

1~^^    -^ 


^'^. 


fir. 


X  -- 


i( 


BR'TTLE  DO  K07 


•••"."••.•jr. 


--«--*     ^    *- 


Kc;: 


;<:^- 


^'w 

*-^-  -»■         •-  »  .  ^<,  *■   ».    ^ 


S,*-    *,♦      _^ 


*-i     *■-.»■» 


•'"W^^^^J^*- ^ 


■•    ■    ^  -•,  ^ 


■  ^  '    '-    ',  .*    , 


-^     \     J    '<-  ••  >.„^ 


■  y*"*-f> 


•-•  ■*  .-*  -V-.^    . 


^-<,>>^-s«^^^^^^-\ 


>-  "-^   *^         ...T' 


iC^Ctr 


iOCP 


.-k -*,**._  V-.  *^- 


--•%•/—*-#**— 


•  S_J   -_>■ 


l^iii.wi'iiw.^  .jiasf.     ^r  ■■ 


^•S  \T^'^^ 


Columbid  Utttbtisttp 
mtbeCttpodtrtuPork 


3 


LIBRARY 


GIVEN   BY 


PUBLISHER 


i 


I 


I 


,WI»i'||.1.'».i.-li  '*-■*'- 


Hin 


I 


i-'IfKairw-* 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

OCTOBER  TENTH,  ELEVENTH,  TWELFTH 

NINETEEN   HUNDRED 

AND   TWELVE 

Volume  Three 


.uM,*'m>.«im  «irt«<wiiMfc)»i#Pn%,  .,i|jiw*.»i»>  !>««.  I 


i( 


i 


■-•^.a    -V'   j'«8P»^.-      •'■W-''V--**fc'  -J^i.-*-.  .*,!» 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE 
OPENING  OF 

THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


BEING  AN  ACCOUNT  IN  THREE  VOLUMES  OF  AN 
ACADEMIC  FESTIVAL  HELD   IN  CELEBRATION  OF 

THE  FORMAL  OPENING  OF  THE  RICE  INSTITUTE, 
A  UNIVERSITY  OF  LIBERAL  AND  TECHNICAL 
LEARNING  FOUNDED  IN  THE  CITY  OF  HOUSTON, 
TEXAS,  BY  WILLIAM  MARSH  RICE  AND  DEDICATED 
BY    HIM    TO    THE    ADVANCEMENT  OF  LETTERS, 

SCIENCE,  AND  ART 


Volume  III 


HOUSTON,  TEXAS 
U.  S.  A. 


r 


3 


\i  »  ^ 


«,- ;,,  -.1— »qi-«,iK'ag-«i*-aw.ti»i--:a>. 


CONTENTS 


VOLUME      THREE 


THE  INAUGURAL  LECTURES 

( CONTINUED ) 

PAGE 

THE  INTRODUCTION  OF  WESTERN  LEARNING 

INTO  JAPAN 68i 

An  inaugural  discourse  by  Privy  Councilor  Baron  Dairoku 
KiKUCHi,  President  of  the  Imperial  Academy  and  Honorary 
Professor  in  the  Imperial  University  of  Tokyo. 

THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 

I.  The  Function  of  a  University 726 

II.  What  is  Poetry? 735 

III.  The  Modern  World 745 

IV.  Poetry  and  Science 755 

V.  Poetry  and  Business 763 

VI.  Poetry  and  Democracy 770 

An  inaugural  discourse  by  John  William  Mackail,  of 
London,  England,  formerly  Professor  of  Poetrj^  in  Oxford 
University. 

THE  SYSTEM  OF  THE  SCIENCES 778 

PRINCIPLES  OF  THE  THEORY  OF  EDUCATION  .     868 

Two  inaugural  lectures  by  Privy  Councilor  Professor  WiL- 
HELM  Ostwald,  late  Professor  of  Chemistry  in  the  Univer- 
sity of  Leipsic,  Nobel  Laureate  in  Chemistry,  1909. 

HENRI  POINCARE 899 

An  inaugural  memoir  by  Senator  Vito  Volterra,  Dean  of 
the  Faculty  of  Science  and  Professor  of  Mathematical  Physics 
and  Celestial  Mechanics  in  the  University  of  Rome. 


\ 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  ELECTRON  AS  AN  ELEMENT 929 

COMPOUNDS  OF  ELECTRONS        947 

THE    DISRUPTION    OF    THE    SO-CALLED    ELE- 
MENTS    962 

Three  inaugural  lectures  by  Sir  William  Ramsay,  K.C.B., 
Professor  of  Chemistry  in  the  University  of  London,  Nobel 
Laureate  in  Chemistry,  1904. 

THE  CORPUSCULAR  THEORY  OF  AURORA 

BOREALIS 981 

An  inaugural  lecture  by  Carl  St0rmer,  Associate  Editor  of 
the  "Acta  Mathematica"  and  Professor  of  Pure  Mathe- 
matics at  the  University  of  Christiania. 

THE    GENERALIZATION    OF   ANALYTIC   FUNC- 
TIONS      1036 

ON  THE  THEORY  OF  WAVES  AND  GREEN'S 

METHOD 1085 

Three  inaugural  lectures  by  Senator  Vito  Volterra,  Dean 
of  the  Faculty  of  Science  and  Professor  of  Mathematical 
Physics  and  Celestial  Mechanics  in  the  University  of  Rome. 


LIST  OF  INSERTS 


VOLUME      THREE 

Portraitures  of 

Dairoku  Kikuchi facing  page     681 

John  William  Mackail 

Wilhelm  Ostwald 

Henri  Poincare 

William  Ramsay 

Carl  St0rmer 

Vito  Volterra 


(( 


(( 


(( 


(( 


(( 


« 


726 

778 

899 
929 

981 

1036 


Hvi] 


^-TM^>m-~- 


THE  INAUGURAL  LECTURES 


r  * 


U* 


1 


THE  INTRODUCTION  OF  WESTERN 
LEARNING  INTO  JAPAN ^ 


THE  FIRST  PERIOD 

THE  intercourse  of  Japan  with  the  West  began,  In  the 
middle  of  the  sixteenth  century,  with  the  coming  of 
the  Portuguese  ships  to  the  coast  of  Kyushu  (1543).  Not 
long  after  came  the  English,  the  Dutch,  and  the  Spanish. 
The  Portuguese  and  Spaniards  were  indiscriminately  called 
Naubari,  which  means  "southern  foreigners,"  as  their  pos- 
sessions in  Asia  lay  to  the  south  of  Japan,  just  as  in  the 
present  day  we  speak  of  all  white  people  as  Seiyojin,  ''men 
of  the  western  seas.*' 

At  this  period  the  shogunate  of  the  Ashikaga  family  was 
tottering  toward  its  fall.  The  Shogun,  or  Sei'I-Tai-Sho-Gun 
(which  was  the  full  title,  meaning  "Generalissimo  for  the 
Subjugation  of  Barbarians"),  was  the  head  of  the  military 
class  and  de  facto  ruler  of  the  country;  for  the  Emperor  and 
the  civil  lords  who  formed  his  court  had  very  little  or  no  real 
power,  although  they  were  reverenced  by  the  people  and 
outwardly  treated  with  honor  and  deference  by  the  shogun 
and  his  followers.  The  office  of  shogun  had  at  the  time 
of  the  first  coming  of  the  Portuguese  been  hereditary  In  the 
Ashikaga  family  for  over  two  hundred  years,  but  in  the 
feeble  hands  of  its  latest  representatives  Its  authority  had 
gradually  been  weakened  until  the  great  military  chiefs 
throughout  the  country  paid  but  little  attention  to  their 
orders  and  were  continually  fighting  against  one  another  in 

1  A  lecture  presented  at  the  inauguration  of  the  Rice  Institute,  by  the  Right 
Honorable  Baron  Dairoku  Kikuchi,  Rigakuhakushi,  M.A.,  LL.D.,  Privy  Coun- 
cilor, President  of  the  Imperial  Academy,  Honorary  Professor  of  the  Imperial 
University  of  Tokyo. 

[6813 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

a  struggle  for  self-aggrandisement.  Among  them  appeared 
three  great  men:  the  first  was  Nobunaga  (of  the  Ota  fam- 
ily), who  deposed  the  last  of  the  Ashikaga  shoguns  (1573) 
and  brought  the  whole  of  central  Japan  under  his  authority. 
After  Nobunaga  was  killed  by  one  of  his  own  generals 
(1582),  Hideyoshi,  another  of  his  generals,  better  known 
by  his  subsequent  title  of  Taiko,  extended  his  power  over  the 
whole  country.  After  the  death  of  the  Taiko  in  1598, 
lyeyasu,  the  head  of  the  Tokugawa  family,  who  had  been 
gradually  strengthening  himself,  patiently  biding  his  time 
under  Nobunaga  and  Hideyoshi,  became  shogun  in  1603 
and  established  his  government  in  Yedo.  lyeyasu  and  his 
descendants  held  the  shogunate  for  fifteen  generations,  and 
were  the  real  rulers  of  the  land  for  over  two  centuries  and  a 
half,  during  which  period  Japan  enjoyed  a  most  profound 
peace,  and  learning  and  the  arts  flourished  under  the  patron- 
age of  shoguns  and  daimyos  (or  feudal  lords) . 

The  above  brief  outline  is  necessary  for  a  clear  under- 
standing of  the  environment  in  which  the  first  introduction  of 
Western  learning  took  place.  The  Portuguese  were  wel- 
comed by  the  military  chiefs  principally  for  the  sake  of  fire- 
arms, which  were  first  introduced  by  them,  and  which  of 
course  gave  to  those  possessed  of  them  an  immense  advan- 
tage over  their  enemies.  Their  use  and  making  were  eagerly 
acquired,  and  already  in  1553  the  shogun  Yoshiteru  had 
guns  made  for  him  at  Anato,  in  the  province  of  Omi,  not  far 
from  Kyoto.  The  Introduction  of  firearms  necessarily 
brought  about  a  change  In  tactics  and  fortification,  but  it  is 
uncertain  how  much  the  military  chiefs  learned  In  these 
things  from  the  Portuguese. 

Not  very  long  after  the  first  coming  of  the  Portuguese, 
the  Jesuit  missionaries  arrived.  They  also  were  well  re- 
ceived by  the  military  lords  of  Kyushu,  several  of  the  most 

[682] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

powerful  of  whom  became  converts;  so  that  Christianity  at 
first  made  rapid  progress,  spreading  not  only  in  Kyushu  and 
adjoining  provinces,  but  also  in  the  neighborhood  of  Kyoto, 
and  later  even  in  northwestern  Japan.  The  shogun  Yoshi- 
teru, mentioned  above,  is  himself  said  to  have  been  among 
the  converts.  Nobunaga  also  was  at  first  favorable  and 
built  for  them  a  church  in  Kyoto  called  the  Nanbanji,  or 
"Temple  of  the  Southern  Foreigners";  but  he  afterward 
repented  of  this,  and  his  successor  Hideyoshi  issued  orders 
for  the  suppression  of  Christianity.  It  may  be  mentioned 
that  the  motives  which  influenced  both  Nobunaga  and 
Hideyoshi  were  entirely  political  and  not  at  all  religious. 

lyeyasu,  his  successor  in  power,  was  friendly  to  foreign- 
ers, and  among  others  treated  a  Dutchman  named  Jan  Joost 
and  an  English  pilot.  Will  Adams,  who  arrived  in  a  Dutch 
ship  In  1600,  with  great  consideration;  he  was  eager  to  learn 
from  them  about  the  world  outside  of  Japan.  He  and  his 
successors,  however,  looked  with  no  favorable  eyes  upon 
missionaries  or  their  converts,  for  they  were  a  source  of 
trouble  everywhere  on  account  of  their  Intolerance  and  quar- 
relsome attitude  toward  those  of  other  faiths.  They  were, 
moreover,  suspected  of  political  intrigue  against  the  sho- 
gunate and  against  the  country;  so  orders  were  Issued  ex- 
pelling not  only  the  missionaries  but  all  Portuguese  and 
Spaniards,  and  forbidding  people  to  profess  Christianity  on 
pain  of  death  or  exile.  This  state  of  affairs  culminated  in 
the  breaking  out  in  1637  of  rebellion  in  Shimabara,  near 
Nagasaki,  w^hither  had  flocked  not  only  Christians  driven  by 
persecution  from  other  parts  of  the  country,  but  also  a  large 
number  of  malcontent  and  turbulent  spirits,  followers  of 
lords  who  had  fought  unsuccessfully  against  the  Tokugawas. 
The  rebellion  was  put  down  early  in  the  next  year,  and  most 
stringent  measures  were  taken  to  stamp  out  Christianity  al- 

r  683:1 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

together.  Already  in  1630  an  order  had  been  issued  by 
which  all  foreign  books,  without  exception,  were  interdicted; 
for  although  it  was  primarily  aimed  at  religious  books,  it 
was  impossible  to  make  such  a  distinction  without  a  know- 
ledge of  European  languages.  In  1635  another  order  was 
issued  prohibiting  all  traveling  abroad  under  the  penalty  of 
death.  Thus,  about  ninety  years  after  the  first  arrival  of  the 
Portuguese  ships,  all  foreign  intercourse  was  forbidden  ex- 
cept such  as  was  permitted  with  the  Dutch  and  the  Chinese 
under  severe  restrictions.^ 

It  is  hard  to  say  exactly  how  much  learning  had  been 
transmitted  by  the  Portuguese  and  Spaniards  during  this 
period.  Among  the  missionaries  were  some  skilled  in  medi- 
cine and  surgery,  and  their  method  of  treating  wounds  seems 
to  have  been  especially  appreciated;  thus  an  elementary 
knowledge  of  *'Nanban"  surgery,  as  it  was  called,  as  well  as 
of  the  warlike  art  of  gunnery,  seems  to  have  been  acquired 
by  the  Japanese  from  them.  A  man  named  Hayashi,  who 
was  put  to  death  (1646)  for  professing  Christianity,  had 
acquired  some  knowledge  of  Western  mathematics  and 
astronomy,  which  he  transmitted  to  his  pupil  Kobayashi ;  he 
had  translated  and  published  a  work  on  astronomy  (1635), 
which  stands  second  in  the  list  of  the  translations  of  Western 
books  Into  Japanese,  the  first  being  ^^sop's  "Fables,"  trans- 
lated and  published  early  in  the  seventeenth  century,  al- 
though perhaps  neither  of  these  was  a  translation  in  the 
strict  sense  of  the  term,  but  rather  a  compilation.  It  is  also 
interesting  to  note  that  some  of  the  great  military  lords  used 
seals  bearing  their  names  in  Latin  letters.  There  are  sev- 
eral  Japanese  words  of  Portuguese  and  Spanish  origin, 
which  bear  testimony  to  the  Introduction  in  those  days  of 

1  The  English  had  previously  abandoned  the  field,   and  their  request  to 
resume  intercourse  in  1673  ^^^  not  entertained. 

1:684: 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

various  manufactures;  such,  for  example,  as  biidoro  (glass, 
Portuguese  vidro)^  bo  tan  (button,  P.  botao)^  biro  do  (vel- 
vet, P.  veludo)y  kappa  (rain-cloak,  Spanish  capa) ^  meriyasu 
(knit-work,  S.  medias)^  etc.  On  the  whole,  the  amount  of 
Western  knowledge  introduced  during  this  period  cannot 
have  been  very  great. 


THE  SECOND  PERIOD 

Our  intercourse  with  the  western  world  after  the  exclusion 
of  the  Portuguese  and  Spaniards  was  through  the  Dutch, 
who  were  permitted  to  come  to  trade  in  the  single  port  of 
Nagasaki;  even  here  they  were  confined  to  a  small  quarter 
of  the  town  known  as  Dejima,  and  the  trade  was  subjected 
to  rigorous  restrictions  and  placed  under  the  strict  surveil- 
lance of  officials  of  the  shogunate.  A  corps  of  interpreters 
was  maintained  in  Nagasaki,  the  oflice  being  hereditary  in 
certain  families,  as  was  the  case  in  those  days  with  almost  all 
professions;  but  even  they  were  not  permitted  to  read  or 
possess  any  foreign  books,  so  that  their  knowledge  of  the 
Dutch  language  was  entirely  oral;  it  was  not  till  1745  that 
this  prohibition  was  removed.  Once  a  year  (afterward  once 
every  four  years)  the  Dutch  "capitan,"  or  chief  factor,  was 
required  to  come  to  Yedo  to  pay  his  respects  to  the  shogun; 
and  these  visits  played  an  important  part  in  the  introduction 
of  Western  knowledge  into  Japan,  for  scholars  In  Yedo  took 
advantage  of  these  occasions  to  "interview,'*  usually  with 
oflScial  sanction,  the  "capitan"  and  those  who  accompanied 
him,  asking  all  sorts  of  questions  on  all  sorts  of  subjects.  It 
is  pathetic  in  some  cases  to  read  of  distinguished  scholars,  in 
their  simplicity  and  zeal  for  knowledge,  reverently  asking 
questions  such  as  the  factors  could  scarcely  have  understood; 
yet  as  in  those  days  communication  between  Nagasaki  and 

1:6851 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Yedo  was  not  easy,  and  as  the  "capitans"  were  accompanied 
by  physicians  (rarely  by  such  men  as  Kaempfer,  Thunberg, 
and  Von  Siebold,  who  took  advantage  of  their  visits  to  see 
the  interior  of  Japan),  those  interviews  were  really  a  great 
opportunity  for  those  who  were  eager  to  learn  about  the 

West. 

Although  the  first  three  shoguns  of  the  Tokugawa  family 
took  such  strong  measures  to  suppress  Christianity,  even 
going  so  far  as  to  cut  off  almost  all  foreign  intercourse  and 
to  interdict  all  foreign  books,  yet  both  they  and  their  suc- 
cessors were  patrons  of  learning  and  the  arts,  and  were  by 
no  means  averse  to  the  introduction  of  useful  knowledge 
from  the  West.    Several  of  the  interpreters  and  others  who 
had  picked  up  some  medical,  or  rather  surgical,  knowledge 
from  the  Dutch  physicians  in  Nagasaki  were  appointed  phy- 
sicians to  the  shogun,  an  example  which  was  followed  by  the 
daimyos.     Arai  Hakuseki^   (1657-1725),  a  great  Chinese 
scholar  and  a  trusted  adviser  of  the  shogun  lyenobu,  sixth 
shogun  of  the  Tokugawa  family  (i 709-171 1),  interviewed 
at  the  command  of  the  shogun  a  Franciscan  priest  who  had 
arrived  in  1709  at  Osumi  in  Kyushu  and  had  been  summoned 
to  Yedo,  where  he  was  kept  in  confinement.     This  priest 
seems  to  have  been  a  man  of  some  attainments,  and  an  ac- 
count of  the  interviews  and  their  results,  supplemented  by 
subsequent  interviews  with  Dutch  "capitans,'*  was  embodied 
in  two  books  entitled  Sairan  I  gen  (17 13)  and  Seiyo  Kibiin 
( 1 7 1 5 ) .    These  books,  written  by  a  man  of  Arai's  standing 
and  scholarship,  gave  certain  importance  and  prestige  to 
their  contents—/.^.,  to  matters  Western— which  they  had 
not  hitherto  possessed,  and  thus  opened  the  way  for  the  in- 
troduction  of   Western   learning.      For   this    reason   Arai 
Hakuseki  is  regarded  as  its  pioneer. 

1  All  the  names  of  men  are  given  in  the  usual  Japanese  way— i.e.,  with  the 
family  name  first. 

[686] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

The  accession  of  the  eighth  shogun,  Yoshimune  (1716- 
1745),  gave  a  great  impetus  to  the  introduction  of  Western 
learning.     He  was  specially  interested  in  astronomy,  and 
had  a  celestial  globe  and  a  sun-dial  made  for  himself;  he 
also  sent  to  Nagasaki   (17 19)   for  Nishigawa  Joken,  who 
had  obtained  some  knowledge  of  astronomy  from  Kobayashi 
(see  above),  and  finally  established  an  astronomical  obser- 
vatory in  Yedo  in  1744.     Up  to  this  time,  foreign  books 
being  prohibited,   the  little  Western  knowledge  that  had 
been  acquired  had  been  either  through  oral  communications 
or  through  Chinese  translations,  which  had  filtered  through 
to  Japan,  Chinese  books  not  coming  within  the  category  of 
prohibited  books,  for  Chinese  was  the  language  of  scholars 
in  Japan  to  within  very  recent  times,  just  as  Latin  was  the 
language  of  the  learned  in  Europe  of  the  Middle  Ages.    But 
now  Yoshimune  removed  this  interdiction  on  foreign  books, 
excepting  those  on  religion   (1720).     In  1738  a  book  on 
astronomy  presented  to  the  shogun  by  the  Dutch  challenged 
his  admiration  by  the  excellence  of  its  illustrations,  and  seek- 
ing for  some  one  to  read  the  explanations  of  the  plates,  he 
ordered  a  man  named  Aoki  Bunzo  (i 698-1 769)  to  begin 
the  study  of  the  Dutch  language.    Aoki  learned  some  Dutch 
words  from  the  interpreters  who  came  to  Yedo  with  the 
factor,  but  not  making  much  headway  he  went  to  Nagasaki, 
where  incidentally  he  was  instrumental  in  getting  an  order 
from  the  government  allowing  interpreters  to  read  books. 
He  returned  to  Yedo,  having  succeeded  in  learning  only 
some  five  hundred  words,  which  is  very  good  evidence  of 
the  extreme  difliculty  of  the  task  in  those  days.    I  regret  that 
the  space  at  my  command  does  not  allow  me  to  enter  into  an 
explanation  of  the  various  obstacles  that  lay  in  the  way  of 
such  study. 

The  death  of  Yoshimune  in  1 751— he  had  retired  from 

1:687] 


I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

active  lite  In  1745— was  a  blow  to  the  advancement  of 
Western  learning;  but  the  impetus  given  could  not  be 
checked.  Thus  the  Observatory,  although  abolished  In  1757, 
was  re-established  in  1765.  Objects  brought  by  the  Dutch 
began  to  be  sought  for  as  curios  and  articles  of  virtu,  books 
among  the  rest.  About  this  time  there  also  flourished  an 
eccentric  and  versatile  genius  called  HIraga  Gennal;  among 
other  evidences  of  his  originality,  he  In  1770  constructed  an 
electric  machine  like  one  which  he  had  seen  in  Nagasaki. 

THE  THIRD  PERIOD 

But  now  comes  an  event  of  the  first  importance  in  the  Intro- 
duction of  Western  knowledge,  namely,  the  translation  and 
publication  of  the  first  work  on  anatomy  in  1774,  through 
the  joint  eflforts  of  Maeno,  Sugita,  and  others.  Up  to  this 
time  the  only  attempt  made  to  read  Dutch  books  had  been 
made  by  Aokl,  who,  as  already  mentioned,  succeeded  with 
enormous  difficulty  in  learning  several  hundred  words;  some 
knowledge  of  astronomy  had  been  acquired  through  Chinese 
translations,  and  the  Dutch  medicine,  so  called,  had  been 
represented  by  an  empirical  practice  of  surgery. 

Maeno  Ryotaku  (i 723-1 803),  a  physician  to  the  Lord 
of  Nakatsu,  was  a  man  of  great  originality  and  perseve- 
rance, and  Sugita  Genpaku  (i733-iSi7)>  ^  surgeon  of 
the  so-called  Dutch  school,  was  a  man  of  kindred  spirit.  In- 
deed, most  of  those  who  were  pioneers  in  the  introduction 
of  Western  knowledge  into  Japan  were  men  of  original 
ideas  and  advanced  views,  eager  and  indefatigable  in  their 
pursuit  of  knowledge,  often  at  the  risk  of  personal  inconve- 
nience or  danger.  Maeno,  Impelled  by  a  desire  to  read 
Dutch,  but  unable  to  get  much  assistance  from  the  Inter- 
preters who  came  with  the  Dutch  to  Yedo,  became  a  pupil  of 

[688] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Aoki,  who  taught  him  all  he  knew.  Both  he  and  Sugita 
derived  much  profit  from  a  Dutch  physician  who  came  one 
year  to  Yedo.  Not  content  with  this,  Maeno  went  to  Naga- 
saki for  several  months  in  1770,  and  returned  with  his 
vocabulary  extended  to  some  seven  hundred  words,  and  with 
a  Dutch  dictionary  and  a  book  on  anatomy  ("Tafel  Ana- 
tomla").  The  next  year  he  and  Sugita  were  present  at  the 
dissection  of  an  executed  criminal  in  Senju,  a  suburb  of  Yedo, 
where  the  executions  generally  took  place.  Such  dissections 
began  about  this  time  to  be  occasionally  made  on  the  bodies 
of  executed  criminals,  at  the  request  of  influential  physicians, 
the  knife  being  usually  wielded  by  the  executioner,  a  member 
of  the  low  Eta  caste  (the  only  caste  that  existed  in  old 
Japan,  and  now  entirely  done  away  with),  who  pointed  out 
to  those  present  such  organs  as  he  happened  to  know.  The 
fact  that  such  dissections  took  place  is  an  evidence  of  the 
universal  spirit  of  intellectual  unrest  which  distinguished  this 
age,  and  of  which  indeed  the  desire  for  Western  knowledge 
was  one  of  the  manifestations.  Up  to  this  time,  however, 
doctors  had  not  dared  to  question,  openly  at  least,  the  truth 
of  the  old  Chinese  teaching  about  the  constitution  of  the 
human  body,  but  had  been  enveloped  in  doubt  and  per- 
plexity. On  that  memorable  day  Maeno,  Sugita,  and  a  few 
others,  comparing  what  they  saw  with  the  figures  In  the 
*'Tafel  Anatomia"  that  Maeno  had  brought  from  Nagasaki, 
and  of  which  Sugita  by  a  most  happy  coincidence  had  also 
secured  a  copy,  were  greatly  impressed  by  their  faithfulness 
to  nature,  and  then  and  there  they  determined  to  devote 
their  lives  to  exploring  the  new  domain  of  knowledge  thus 
opened  to  their  view.  The  very  next  day  they  met  at 
Maeno's  house  and  began  the  work  of  deciphering  the  book 
—  for  it  was  deciphering,  and  nothing  less.  To  this  task 
Maeno  brought  his  knowledge  of  some  seven  hundred  words 

n689: 


I  j 

f 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

and  the  dictionary,  while  some  of  them  did  not  even  know 
the  alphabet;  but,  nothing  daunted,  they  set  to  work  and 
toiled  for  three  whole  years,  until  1774,  during  which  time 
the  band  was  joined  by  some  new  members  and  deserted  by 
some  old  ones.  The  names  of  the  eight  who  were  constant 
in  their  devotion  to  the  self-appointed  task  deserve  to  be 
mentioned  here,  viz.,  Maeno  Ryotaku,  Sugita  Genpaku,  Kat- 
suragawa  Hoshu  (i 751-1809),  Nakagawa  Junnan,  Ishi- 
kawa  Genjo,  Toriyama  Shoen,  Mine  Shuntai,  and  Kiriyama 
Seitetsu.  Sugita  always  wrote  out  at  night  what  had  been 
deciphered  during  the  day,  making  corrections  and  revisions 
as  the  work  progressed,  so  that  at  the  end  of  three  years  the 
translation  was  completed  simultaneously  with  the  decipher- 
ing. The  publication  of  this  work,  entitled  Kaitai  Shins  ho, 
or  *'New  Anatomy,"  marks  an  epoch  in  the  history  of  the 
introduction  of  Occidental  civilization  into  Japan;  for  not 
only  was  it  a  great  training  and  education  to  those  who  took 
part  in  it,  giving  them  confidence  and  power,  and  making 
them,  as  it  were,  the  center  of  the  new  movement,  but  it 
made  known  to  a  much  wider  circle  than  before  the  existence 
of  an  entirely  new  system  of  learning  and  roused  a  spirit  of 
inquiry  in  bolder  minds,  many  of  whom  joined  the  pioneers 
as  associates  and  pupils  and  became  their  successors  in  carry- 
ing on  the  work. 

Maeno  was  interested  in  the  Dutch  language,  and  wrote 
several  books  in  order  to  make  its  study  and  translation 
easier,  while  Sugita  devoted  himself  more  especially  to  the 
advancement  of  the  knowledge  and  practice  of  the  new 
medicine.  From  this  time  on,  the  introduction  of  Western 
knowledge  was  placed  on  a  firmer  basis;  for  original  books 
became  accessible  to  those  who  took  pains  enough — great 
pains,  no  doubt,  but  not  to  be  compared  with  those  of  Maeno 
and  his  fellows.     To  this  result  Otsuki  Gentaku   (1757- 

[690] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

1827),  a  pupil  of  Maeno  and  of  Sugita,  contributed  very 
greatly,  both  by  his  personal  teaching  and  by  his  books, 
among  which  may  be  specially  mentioned  one  entitled  Ran- 
gaku  Kaieti,  or  "Introduction  to  the  Study  of  Dutch" 
(1788).  Many  now  came  to  him  to  get  help  in  reading 
Dutch;  one  of  his  pupils,  Inamura  Sanpaku,  compiled  a 
Dutch-Japanese  dictionary  containing  eighty  thousand 
words,  after  a  Dutch-French  dictionary  of  Frangois  Halma, 
and  type-printed  thirty  copies  of  it  by  subscription  in  1796. 
An  abridged  edition  containing  thirty  thousand  words  was 
afterward  made  by  his  pupil  Fujibayashi,  of  which  one  hun- 
dred copies  were  printed  in  1 8 1 o.  Another  dictionary  based 
on  the  same  Dutch-French  dictionary  was  compiled  at  Naga- 
saki by  a  Dutchman,  Hendrik  Doeff,  a  resident  in  Nagasaki 
for  seventeen  years,  with  the  assistance  of  Yoshiwo  Gonno- 
suke  and  other  interpreters.  This  was  completed  in  18 16, 
but  was  not  printed  until  much  later  (i 855-1 858).  It  was 
afterward  known  as  "Doeff  Halma"  to  distinguish  it  from 
the  "Yedo  Halma"  of  Inamura.  Various  abridged  dic- 
tionaries were  compiled,  and  some  of  them  printed,  all  tend- 
ing to  make  the  acquiring  of  the  Dutch  language  easier;  but 
those  of  Inamura  and  Doeff  condnued  to  be  standard  works, 
and  as  they  were  both  out  of  print,  they  used  to  be  copied  by 
poor  students,  who  thereby  earned  money  and  at  the  same 
time  increased  their  knowledge  of  the  Dutch  vocabulary. 

The  so-called  Dutch  medicine  had  up  to  this  period  been 
confined,  as  already  mentioned,  to  the  practice  of  surgery, 
but  Udagawa  Genzui  (i755~i797)j  a  physician  to  the  Lord 
of  Tsuyama,  seeing  the  errors  of  the  old  Chinese  school  of 
medicine,  became  a  pupil  and  afterward  an  eminent  member 
of  the  band  of  Dutch  scholars,  and  at  the  suggestion  of  Kat- 
suragawa  (one  of  Maeno's  co-workers)  took  up  the  study 
of  a  Dutch  work  on  medicine  by  one  Johannes  Gorter.    Al- 

1:6913 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

though  he  had  the  invaluable  assistance  not  only  of  Katsura- 
gawa,  but  also  of  Maeno,  Sugita,  Otsuki,  and  others,  who 
all  earnestly  desired  his  success  for  the  sake  of  the  advance- 
ment of  their  cause,  he  had  to  contend  not  only  with  the 
difficulty  of  the  subject-matter  itself,  but  also  with  that  of 
the  language,  as  yet  scarcely  mastered.  It  took  him  nine 
years  to  complete  the  translation  of  the  work,  which  was 
published  in  the  tenth  year  ( 1 793 )  under  the  name  of  Naika 
Sen-yo,  or  ''Elements  of  Internal  Medicine."  This  was  the 
first  time  that  the  Western  system  of  (internal)  medicine 
was  made  known  to  the  Japanese.  Udagawa  afterward 
wrote  several  other  books  on  medicine.  His  adopted  son, 
Udagawa  Genshin  (i 769-1 834),  a  pupil  of  Otsuki,  was  a 
very  good  Chinese  scholar,  and  is  said  to  have  been  a  great 
help  to  Inamura  in  compiling  his  dictionary.  He  afterward 
revised  and  enlarged  his  father's  work  on  medicine,  and  also 
published  in  1806  a  book  called  /  Han  Teiko,  or  "Manual 
of  Medicine, '*  which  was  of  great  service  in  diffusing  West- 
ern medical  knowledge.  His  mastery  of  Chinese  made  him 
a  ready  writer  and  translator— although,  indeed,  this  might 
be  said  of  almost  all  of  those  early  pioneers  of  the  new 
school. 

Yoshida  Choshuku  (i 779-1 824),  a  pupil  of  Katsura- 
gawa,  being  led  to  the  study  of  original  Dutch  books  by 
reading  Udagawa's  Naika  Sen-yo,  was  the  first  to  begin  the 
open  practice  of  Dutch  medicine.  This  gave  great  offense  to 
the  doctors  of  the  old  or  Chinese  school,  who  insisted  that 
the  Dutch  system  should  be  confined  to  surgery,  as  hereto- 
fore, and  denounced  the  new  medicine  as  outlandish  and 
vicious;  so  that  Katsuragawa  was  obliged  to  scratch  Yoshi- 
da's  name  off  the  list  of  his  pupils.  Yoshida,  however,  was 
very  successful,  and  afterward,  on  the  recommendation  of 
Udagawa,  became  a  physician  to  the  Lord  of  Kaga.     He 

1:6923 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

published  in  18 14  a  book  on  the  treatment  of  fever,  entitled 
Taisei  Netsuhyo  Ron,  with  a  later  supplement,  and  also  a 
work  on  Dutch  materia  medica.  He  had  many  pupils— 
among  others,  Takano  Choei  and  Koseki  San-ei. 

Yoshiwo  Joan  was  the  first  to  call  attention  to  the  impor- 
tance of  the  study  of  physics,  and  as  an  introduction  wrote  a 
book  on  celestial  phenomena  called  Kwansho  Zusetsu 
(1823).  Aochi  Rinso  (i 775-1 853)  was  the  first  to  pub- 
lish a  book  on  physics,  Kikai  Kwanran  (1827),  which  was 
afterward  amplified  by  Kawamoto  Komin  (1810-1871)  in 
his  Kikai  Kwanran  Kwogi  (1851).  Kawamoto  was  inter- 
ested in  applied  science,  and  made  various  experiments;  he 
was  successful  in  taking  daguerreotypes  and  photographs. 
Aochi's  Bankoku  Yochi  Shiryakti  may  also  be  regarded  as 
the  first  systematic  book  on  geography,  although  unfortu- 
nately it  was  not  printed.  In  1 833  was  published  Shokugaku 
Keigen  by  Udagawa  Yoan  (i  798-1 846),  adopted  son  of 
Udagawa  Genshin,  containing  an  exposition  of  systematic 
botany  after  Linnaeus;  and  in  1839,  SeimiKaiso, by  the  same 
author,  which  was  the  first  book  on  chemistry. 

We  have  already  seen  that  the  shogun  Yoshimune  was 
interested  in  astronomy  and  founded  an  observatory.  As- 
tronomy, however,  did  not  flourish;  the  knowledge  of  West- 
ern astronomy  and  mathematics,  transmitted  by  Hayashi 
through  Kobayashi  to  Nishigawa,  died  out  with  the  last- 
named  scholar.  There  were  attempts  at  the  translation  of 
books  on  astronomy,  such  as  that  by  Motoki  Nidayu,  a 
Nagasaki  interpreter,  who  was  ordered  to  translate  a  book 
on  the  use  of  globes,  and  notwithstanding  his  ignorance  of 
the  subject  did  accomplish  the  task  (1793)  after  toiling  at 
it  for  two  years.  The  truth  is  that  while  in  medical  and 
allied  sciences  the  translators  were  doctors  who  had  some 
knowledge  of  the  subject,  or  at  all  events  were  animated  by 

1:6933 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

though  he  had  the  Invaluable  assistance  not  only  of  Katsura- 
gawa,  but  also  of  Maeno,  Suglta,  OtsukI,  and  others,  who 
all  earnestly  desired  his  success  for  the  sake  of  the  advance- 
ment of  their  cause,  he  had  to  contend  not  only  with  the 
difficulty  of  the  subject-matter  itself,  but  also  with  that  of 
the  language,  as  yet  scarcely  mastered.     It  took  him  nine 
years  to  complete  the  translation  of  the  work,  which  was 
published  In  the  tenth  year  (1793)  under  the  name  of  A^^i^^ 
Sen-yo,  or  "Elements  of  Internal  Medicine."    This  was  the 
first  time  that  the  Western  system  of  (internal)   medicine 
was  made  known  to  the  Japanese.     Udagawa  afterward 
wrote  several  other  books  on  medicine.     His  adopted  son, 
Udagawa  Genshin  (i 769-1 834).  a  pupil  of  OtsukI,  was  a 
very  good  Chinese  scholar,  and  is  said  to  have  been  a  great 
help  to  Inamura  in  compiling  his  dictionary.    He  afterward 
revised  and  enlarged  his  father's  work  on  medicine,  and  also 
published  In  1806  a  book  called  /  Han  Teiko,  or  "Manual 
of  Medicine,''  which  was  of  great  service  in  diffusing  West- 
ern  medical  knowledge.    His  mastery  of  Chinese  made  him 
a  ready  writer  and  translator— although,  indeed,  this  might 
be  said  of  almost  all  of  those  early  pioneers  of  the  new 

school. 

Yoshlda  Choshuku  (i 779-1 824),  a  pupil  of  Katsura- 
gawa,  being  led  to  the  study  of  original  Dutch  books  by 
reading  Udagawa's  Naika  Sen-yo,  was  the  first  to  begin  the 
open  practice  of  Dutch  medicine.  This  gave  great  offense  to 
the  doctors  of  the  old  or  Chinese  school,  who  insisted  that 
the  Dutch  system  should  be  confined  to  surgery,  as  hereto- 
fore, and  denounced  the  new  medicine  as  outlandish  and 
vicious;  so  that  Katsuragawa  was  obliged  to  scratch  Yoshl- 
da's  name  off  the  list  of  his  pupils.  Yoshlda,  however,  was 
very  successful,  and  afterward,  on  the  recommendation  of 
Udagawa,  became  a  physician  to  the  Lord  of  Kaga.     He 

1:692:] 


/ 


it 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

published  in  18 14  a  book  on  the  treatment  of  fever,  entitled 
Taisei  Netsuhyo  Ron,  with  a  later  supplement,  and  also  a 
work  on  Dutch  materia  medica.  He  had  many  pupils— 
among  others,  Takano  Choel  and  Koseki  San-ei. 

Yoshiwo  Joan  was  the  first  to  call  attention  to  the  impor- 
tance of  the  study  of  physics,  and  as  an  Introduction  wrote  a 
book  on  celestial  phenomena  called  Kwansho  Zusetsu 
(1823).  AochI  RInso  (i 775-1 853)  was  the  first  to  pub- 
lish a  book  on  physics,  Kikai  Kwanran  (1827),  which  was 
afterward  amplified  by  Kawamoto  Komin  (1810-1871)  in 
his  Kikai  Kwanran  Kwogi  (1851).  Kawamoto  was  inter- 
ested In  applied  science,  and  made  various  experiments;  he 
was  successful  in  taking  daguerreotypes  and  photographs. 
Aochl's  Bankoku  Yochi  Shiryaku  may  also  be  regarded  as 
the  first  systematic  book  on  geography,  although  unfortu- 
nately It  was  not  printed.  In  1 833  was  published  Shokugaku 
Keigen  by  Udagawa  Yoan  (i 798-1 846),  adopted  son  of 
Udagawa  Genshin,  containing  an  exposition  of  systematic 
botany  after  Linnasus;  and  in  1839,  Seimi Kaiso,  hy  the  same 
author,  which  was  the  first  book  on  chemistry. 

We  have  already  seen  that  the  shogun  Yoshlmune  was 
interested  in  astronomy  and  founded  an  observatory.  As- 
tronomy, however,  did  not  flourish;  the  knowledge  of  West- 
ern astronomy  and  mathematics,  transmitted  by  Hayashi 
through  KobayashI  to  NIshigawa,  died  out  with  the  last- 
named  scholar.  There  were  attempts  at  the  translation  of 
books  on  astronomy,  such  as  that  by  Motoki  NIdayu,  a 
Nagasaki  Interpreter,  who  was  ordered  to  translate  a  book 
on  the  use  of  globes,  and  notwithstanding  his  Ignorance  of 
the  subject  did  accomplish  the  task  (1793)  after  toiling  at 
it  for  two  years.  The  truth  Is  that  while  in  medical  and 
allied  sciences  the  translators  were  doctors  who  had  some 
knowledge  of  the  subject,  or  at  all  events  were  animated  by 

1:693] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

a  zeal  for  it,  astronomy  suffered  from  an  utter  lack  of 
mathematical  knowledge  on  the  part  of  those  who  under- 
stood Dutch.  It  may  here  be  stated  that  a  system  of  mathe- 
matics was  being  developed  in  Japan  quite  independently  of 
Western  mathematics,  which  was  not  introduced  till  later 
on,  and  even  then  it  was  cultivated  side  by  side  with,  but 
quite  distinct  from,  the  latter.  Under  these  circumstances 
the  Observatory  had  fallen  upon  evil  days,  and  the  almanac 
for  1795  failed  to  predict  the  total  solar  eclipse  which  took 
place  on  New  Year's  day  (old  calendar).  A  reform  was 
now  imperative,  and  Asada  Goryu  (i  734-1799)  was  sum- 
moned from  Osaka  to  take  charge  of  the  task.  He  was  a 
man  of  great  originality;  a  physician  by  profession,  he  had 
devoted  himself  to  astronomy  and  had  made  observations 
with  instruments  made  by  himself,  and  arrived  independently 
at  several  important  results,  which  he  afterward  found  to 
agree  with  those  of  Western  astronomers  as  stated  In  Chi- 
nese books  (translations  or  compilations  mostly  by  Catholic 
missionaries  in  China).  Asada  was  too  old  to  come  to  Yedo 
himself,  but  sent  his  two  pupils,  TakahashI  Sakuzaemon 
(1764-1804)  and  Hazama  Gorobei  (1756-1816),  in  his 
place.  They  were  both  men  of  great  ability,  and  under  their 
direction  a  revised  almanac  was  issued  for  1798.  Hazama 
then  went  back  to  Osaka.  He  was  a  man  of  some  means, 
always  had  artisans  working  for  him,  and  among  other  In- 
struments made  a  barometer  and  a  thermometer,  with  which 
he  began  meteorological  observations  which  were  kept  up 
for  some  time  after  his  death;  he  also  devised  an  ellipso- 
graph which  Is  described  by  his  son.  The  Instruments  used 
by  Ino  in  his  survey  were  made  under  the  direction  of 
Hazama  after  European  models.  TakahashI,  Asada's  other 
pupil,  was  placed  permanently  on  the  staff  of  the  Obser- 
vatory.   It  was  at  his  suggestion  and  under  his  superintend- 

1:6943 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

ence  that  the  geodetic  survey  of  Japan  was  undertaken 
by  Ino  Kageyu  (i 744-1 81 8).  Ino  was  well  over  fifty 
when  he  began  the  survey  in  1800,  and  spent  the  rest  of  his 
life  on  the  survey,  so  that  the  maps  were  almost  complete 
at  the  time  of  his  death.  The  wonderful  accuracy  of  these 
maps,  which  are  still  preserved  and  parts  of  which  have  con- 
tinued to  be  the  standard  map  down  to  the  present  day,  bears 
ample  testimony  to  the  skill,  patience,  endurance,  and  scien- 
tific conscientiousness  of  Ino.  TakahashI  did  not  live  to  see 
the  completion  of  Ino's  survey;  he  died  in  1804,  and  was 
succeeded  by  his  son  TakahashI  Sakuzaemon,  junior  (1785- 
1830),  also  an  able  and  enterprising  man. 

At  the  suggestion  of  Takahashi,  junior,  a  bureau  of  trans- 
lation was  established  in  181 1  In  the  Observatory,  Otsuki 
Gentaku,  Baba  Sajuro  (1787-1839),  a  Dutch  interpreter  of 
Nagasaki,  and  Udagawa  Genshin  being  the  earliest  members 
of  the  staff,  which  included  at  one  time  or  another  most  of 
the  eminent  Dutch  scholars,  such  as  Otsuki  Genkan  (1785- 
1837),  son  of  Gentaku;  Udagawa  Yoan;  Sugita  Rikkei 
(1786-1845),  son  of  Genpaku;  Sugita  Seikei  (1817-1859), 
son  of  Rikkei;  Aochi  RInso;  Koseki  San-ei  (1787-1839); 
Mitsukuri  Genpo  (i 799-1 863),  grandfather  of  the  present 
writer;  Kawamoto  Komin;  etc.  This  bureau  of  translation 
was  the  germ  which  has  developed  through  several  stages 
of  transformation  into  the  present  Imperial  University  of 
Tokyo.  Such  a  bureau  was  decidedly  a  desideratum  at  that 
time;  for  the  Russians  in  the  north  and  the  English  in  the 
south  were  beginning  to  make  their  presence  felt,  sometimes 
in  a  very  unpleasant  manner,  and  the  government  was  de- 
sirous of  obtaining  a  fuller  and  more  accurate  knowledge  of 
the  outside  world.  Already  Dutch  scholars  had  written 
many  books  and  pamphlets,  giving  information  concerning 
the  nations  of  the  world,  of  which  some  were  printed  and 


\ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

published,  some  circulated  privately  in  manuscripts,  and 
some  kept  secret  for  official  or  individual  reasons.  Such 
were  the  Bankoku  Zusetsu  ("Map  of  the  World,  with  Ex- 
planations,'' 1786)  by  Katsuragawa,  the  Bankoku  Shinwa 
C^New  Talk  about  Different  Countries,"  1789)  by  Morl- 
shlma  (a  brother  of  Katsuragawa),  a  revision  and  enlarge- 
ment of  Aral's  Sairan  I  gen  by  Yamamura  Salsuke  (a  pupil  of 
Otsuki,  1802),  Ho  Ei  Hondo  (a  warning  about  the  move- 
ments of  the  English,  1 807  and  1 808 )  by  Otsuki  Gentaku,  etc., 
besides  many  books  on  Russia  and  the  Russians  by  almost 
every  one  of  the  above  writers  and  several  others.  (I  men- 
tion these  to  show  that  those  pioneers  of  the  new  learning 
were  alive  to  the  dangers  of  foreign  attack,  and  were  the 
first  to  warn  their  countrymen  of  it.)  In  1808  several  of 
the  interpreters  at  Nagasaki  were  ordered  to  learn  Russian 
and  English.  One  of  them,  Motoki  Shozaemon,  wrote  an 
English  grammar  (1811)  and  compiled  an  English-Japa- 
nese dictionary  (1814),  neither  of  which  was,  however, 
printed.  It  was  not  till  1847  that  the  study  of  English  be- 
gan to  be  taken  up  seriously  in  Yedo.  About  this  time  Rin 
Shihei  (173 8-1 793)  traveled  all  over  Japan  from  Yezo  to 
Nagasaki,  and  became  convinced  of  the  pressing  necessity 
of  coast  defense,  and  of  the  danger  arising  from  its  total 
neglect.  He  tried  to  impress  upon  his  countrymen  the  mag- 
nitude and  imminence  of  this  danger,  and  with  this  object 
he  wrote  several  books,  among  others  Kaikoku  Heidan,  or 
"Talk  on  the  Arms  of  an  Island  Country"  (1787,  published 
1791).  This  book  led  to  his  being  kept  in  confinement 
(1792)  for  trying  "to  excite  the  people  to  unnecessary  un- 
rest by  publishing  preposterous  opinions  based  on  ridiculous 

rumors." 

The  arrival  of  Phllipp  Franz  von  Siebold  as  physician  to 
the  Dutch  factory  was  a  great  event  in  the  history  of  the 

C696] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Introduction    of    Western    knowledge;     for,    besides    his 
exceptional  skill  in  medicine,  he  was  also  well  equipped 
scientifically  for  carrying  on  the  Investigations  in  natural  his- 
tory for  which  he  had  come  to  Japan.     He  resided  for  six 
years,  from  1823  to  1829,  in  Nagasaki,  where  he  gave  clini- 
cal lectures,  and  many  Japanese  doctors  and  scientists  visited 
him  and  greatly  profited  by  his  instruction  and  guidance, 
while  he  himself  also  derived  immense  advantages  from 
their  assistance.     In  1826  he  came  to  Yedo,  where,  among 
others,  Takahashi  of  the  Observatory  became  acquainted 
with  him,  and  gave  him  a  map  of  Japan  in  exchange  for 
some  books  which  Takahashi  was  most  anxious  to  acquire 
as  likely  to  give  a  very  good  idea  of  the  state  of  Europe,  but 
which  Siebold  would  not  give  him  on  any  other  condition. 
Now  it  was  against  the  law  to  give  a  map  of  Japan  to  a  for- 
eigner, and  this  act  of  Takahashi  being  afterwards  discov- 
ered, he  was  thrown  into  prison,  where  he  died  soon  after. 
At  the  same  time  an  ophthalmologist,  Habu  Gensekl,  was 
severely  punished  for  having  given  Siebold,  in  exchange  for 
some  ophthalmological  books  and  instruments,   a  kimono 
with  the  shogun's  crest  which  had  been  given  him  as  a  reward 
for  some  special  service.   Many  others  suffered  in  connection 
with  this,  and  Siebold  himself  was  expelled  from  the  coun- 
try.    This  was  a  very  unfortunate  occurrence,  for  Siebold 
had  been  a  great  help  to  the  students  of  Western  learning, 
and  his  expulsion  was  a  real  blow  to  its  cause,  and  this  act 
of  disloyalty,  even  though  it  had  been  done  with  good  inten- 
tion, brought  reproach  on  the  votaries  of  the  new  learning. 
Among  those  who  received  Siebold's  instruction  in  Naga- 
saki were  Ito  Keisuke,  Ito  Genboku,  Totsuka  Selkai  (a  pupil 
of  Udagawa  Genshin),  Takano  Choei  (a  pupil  of  Yoshlda), 
and  others.     Ito  Keisuke  (i  803-1 901)  became  an  eminent 
botanist,  and  in  1901  was  raised  to  the  peerage  at  the  age  of 

[697:1 


i 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

ninety-eight  for  his  services  to  the  state  as  scientist.  Ito 
Genboku  (i 800-1 871)  and  Totsuka  (i 799-1 876)  came  to 
Yedo  and  practised,  taught,  and  wrote  books  on  the  Dutch 
medicine.  They  were  very  successful,  Ito  afterwards  being 
appointed  physician  to  the  Lord  of  Hizen  (1844)  and  later 
to  the  shogun  (1858),  and  Totsuka  to  the  Lord  of  Satsuma 
(1842).  Takano  Choei  (1804-1850)  was  a  man  of  great 
talent,  a  very  good  Dutch  scholar,  and  a  facile  writer  and 
translator;  he  also  came  to  Yedo  (1830)  and  began  to  prac- 
tise and  teach  medicine;  he  translated  many  books,  among 
which  his  Igen  SuyS,  a  work  on  physiology,  deserves  to  be 
specially  mentioned  here.  But  his  active  nature  and  inde- 
pendent spirit  did  not  allow  him  to  lead  a  quiet  life.  With 
his  friends,  among  whom  the  most  prominent  were  Wata- 
nabe  Noboru  ( 1 794-1 842 ) ,  chief  adviser  to  a  small  daimyo ; 
a  Chinese  scholar  and  artist  (well  known  by  the  wow  de 
plume  of  ''Kwazan"),  who,  although  not  himself  a  Dutch 
scholar,  was  convinced  of  the  importance  of  Western  learn- 
ing; and  Koseki  Sanei  (i 787-1 839),  already  mentioned  as 
a  pupil  of  Yoshida,— with  these  and  others,  Takano  held 
periodical  meetings,  at  which  they  discussed  all  sorts  of 
topics,  literary,  scientific,  social,  industrial,  and  political,  in 
the  light  of  Western  knowledge.  One  day,  hearing  that  the 
government  had  decided  to  send  away,  by  force  if  necessary, 
an  English  ship  if  it  should  appear  in  Yedo  Bay  in  accord- 
ance with  the  information  given  by  the  Dutch,  they  earnestly 
discussed  the  subject  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  those 
who  understood  the  condition  of  the  outside  world  should 
not  be  silent  on  such  an  important  occasion.  Accordingly, 
Takano  wrote  a  brochure  called  Ytime  Monogatari  ("A 
Dream"),  in  which  he  urged,  in  the  words  of  a  man  met  in 
a  dream,  the  unadvisability  of  such  a  policy.    This  brochure 

C6983 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

was  presented  to  the  officials  of  the  shogun  and  secretly  cir- 
culated among  Takano's  friends.  Watanabe  also  wrote 
some  notes  which  he,  however,  with  his  natural  modesty  and 
prudence,  kept  to  himself. 

It   was   to   be   expected   that   the   conservative   element, 
among  whom  we  may  count  the  Chinese  scholars  in  general, 
would  look  with  no  favorable  eyes  upon  the  instruction  in 
what  they  regarded  as  barbarian  and  outlandish.     One  of 
the  most  persistent  and  implacable  of  them  was  Torii  Yozo, 
a  narrow-minded  man,  who  had  special  reasons  to  be  un- 
friendly to  the  advocates  of  the  new  learning.     He  was  a 
cadet  of  the  Hayashi  family,  whose  head  was  hereditary 
doyen  of  the  Chinese  literati,  and  on  one  occasion,  as  the 
head  of  a  commission  to  make  a  survey  of  the  coast  of  Izu 
and  Sagami  and  to  report  on  the  best  means  for  its  defense, 
he  had  the  mortification  of  seeing  the  report  of  Egawa 
Tarozaemon,   his  second  on  the  commission,   accepted  in 
preference  to  his  own.    This  Egawa  was  a  friend  of  the  new 
learning,    and   had   the   assistance   of  Uchida   Yataro   and 
Tamura  Kisaburo,  pupils  of  Takano  Choei,  who  were  ac- 
quainted  with   the   modern   method   of    surveying.      The 
patriotic  but  somewhat  too  ardent  and  imprudent  zeal  of 
Takano  and  others  gave  Torii  a  good  opportunity  of  taking 
a  personal  revenge  and  at  the  same  time  of  arresting  the 
advance  of  the  new  movement.    Watanabe  was  ordered  to 
be  kept  in  confinement  in  the  domain  of  his  lord,  where  he 
afterwards  committed  hara-kiri,  having  reasons  to  fear  that 
his  living  might  be  prejudicial  to  the  interests  of  his  lord. 
Takano  was  put  into  a  common  prison,  whence  he  escaped 
at  the  time  of  a  fire,  and  after  being  in  hiding  for  some  time, 
during  which  he  was  employed  in  making  translations,  was 
discovered   and  killed  himself  in  order  to   avoid   further 

[699] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

ninety-eight  for  his  services  to  the  state  as  scientist.  Ito 
Genboku  (1800-1871)  and  Totsuka  (1799-1876)  came  to 
Yedo  and  practised,  taught,  and  wrote  books  on  the  Dutch 
medicine.  They  were  very  successful,  Ito  afterwards  being 
appointed  physician  to  the  Lord  of  Hizen  ( 1844)  and  later 
to  the  shogun  (1858),  and  Totsuka  to  the  Lord  of  Satsuma 
(1842).  Takano  Choei  (i 804-1 850)  was  a  man  of  great 
talent,  a  very  good  Dutch  scholar,  and  a  facile  writer  and 
translator;  he  also  came  to  Yedo  (1830)  and  began  to  prac- 
tise and  teach  medicine;  he  translated  many  books,  among 
which  his  Igen  Suyo,  a  work  on  physiology,  deserves  to  be 
specially  mentioned  here.  But  his  active  nature  and  Inde- 
pendent spirit  did  not  allow  him  to  lead  a  quiet  life.  With 
his  friends,  among  whom  the  most  prominent  were  Wata- 
nabe  Noboru  ( 1 794-1 842 ) ,  chief  adviser  to  a  small  daimyo ; 
a  Chinese  scholar  and  artist  (well  known  by  the  nom  de 
plume  of  "Kwazan"),  who,  although  not  himself  a  Dutch 
scholar,  was  convinced  of  the  importance  of  Western  learn- 
ing; and  Koseki  Sanei  (i 787-1 839),  already  mentioned  as 
a  pupil  of  Yoshida,— with  these  and  others,  Takano  held 
periodical  meetings,  at  which  they  discussed  all  sorts  of 
topics,  literary,  scientific,  social,  industrial,  and  political,  in 
the  light  of  Western  knowledge.  One  day,  hearing  that  the 
government  had  decided  to  send  away,  by  force  if  necessary, 
an  English  ship  if  it  should  appear  in  Yedo  Bay  in  accord- 
ance with  the  information  given  by  the  Dutch,  they  earnestly 
discussed  the  subject  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  those 
who  understood  the  condition  of  the  outside  world  should 
not  be  silent  on  such  an  important  occasion.  Accordingly, 
Takano  wrote  a  brochure  called  Yume  Monogatari  ("A 
Dream"),  in  which  he  urged,  in  the  words  of  a  man  met  in 
a  dream,  the  unadvisability  of  such  a  policy.    This  brochure 

[698] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

was  presented  to  the  officials  of  the  shogun  and  secretly  cir- 
culated among  Takano's  friends.  Watanabe  also  wrote 
some  notes  which  he,  however,  with  his  natural  modesty  and 
prudence,  kept  to  himself. 

It   was   to   be   expected   that   the   conservative   element, 
among  whom  we  may  count  the  Chinese  scholars  in  general, 
would  look  with  no  favorable  eyes  upon  the  Instruction  in 
what  they  regarded  as  barbarian  and  outlandish.     One  of 
the  most  persistent  and  implacable  of  them  was  Torii  Yozo, 
a  narrow-minded  man,  who  had  special  reasons  to  be  un- 
friendly to  the  advocates  of  the  new  learning.     He  was  a 
cadet  of  the  Hayashi   family,  whose  head  was  hereditary 
doyen  of  the  Chinese  literati,  and  on  one  occasion,  as  the 
head  of  a  commission  to  make  a  survey  of  the  coast  of  Izu 
and  Sagami  and  to  report  on  the  best  means  for  its  defense, 
he  had  the  mortification  of  seeing  the  report  of  Egawa 
Tarozaemon,   his   second  on  the  commission,   accepted  in 
preference  to  his  own.    This  Egawa  was  a  friend  of  the  new 
learning,    and   had  the   assistance   of   Uchlda   Yataro   and 
Tamura  KIsaburo,  pupils  of  Takano  Choei,  who  were  ac- 
quainted   with    the    modern    method    of    surveying.      The 
patriotic  but  somewhat  too  ardent  and  imprudent  zeal  of 
Takano  and  others  gave  Torii  a  good  opportunity  of  taking 
a  personal  revenge  and  at  the  same  time  of  arresting  the 
advance  of  the  new  movement.     Watanabe  was  ordered  to 
be  kept  In  confinement  in  the  domain  of  his  lord,  where  he 
afterwards  committed  hara-kiri,  having  reasons  to  fear  that 
his  living  might  be  prejudicial  to  the  interests  of  his  lord. 
Takano  was  put  Into  a  common  prison,  whence  he  escaped 
at  the  time  of  a  fire,  and  after  being  in  hiding  for  some  time, 
during  which  he  was  employed  in  making  translations,  was 
discovered   and  killed  himself  in  order  to   avoid  further 

n699l 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

humiliation.  Koseki  Sanei  also  killed  himself  as  soon  as  he 
heard  of  the  arrest  of  Watanabe  and  Takano,  and  many 
others  suffered  in  various  degrees. 

Another  victim  of  Torii's  enmity  was  Takashima  Shiro- 
dayu  of  Nagasaki,  who,  having  learned  modern  gunnery 
from  a  Dutchman,  had  been  summoned  in  1841  to  Yedo  to 
exhibit  his  method  and  skill.  Egawa  Tarozaemon  was  the 
first  to  enroll  himself  as  his  pupil  and  to  receive  instruction 
in  the  new  method.  After  his  return  to  Nagasaki,  Taka- 
shima was  accused  of  secret  intercourse  with  the  Dutch  and 
thrown  into  prison,  whence,  however,  he  was  released  in 
1853  to  give  instruction  in  gunnery. 

The  way  of  Dutch  scholars,  which  had  been  by  no  means 
smooth  before  these  events,  was  now  made  still  rougher  by 
various  restrictions,  which,  however,  could  not  stop  the 
steady  progress  of  Western  knowledge.  Among  the  pupils 
of  Udagawa  Genshin  were  Tsubol  Shindo  (i 795-1 848), 
Mitsukuri  Genpo  (already  mentioned),  and  Totsuka  Selkai. 
Tsubol  began  to  systematize  the  teaching  of  the  Dutch  by 
prescribing  a  course  In  which  the  reading  of  grammar  had 
an  early  and  important  place.  One  of  his  pupils,  Ogata 
Koan  (1810-1863),  began  to  practise  the  Dutch  medicine 
and  to  teach  the  Dutch  language  and  medicine  in  Osaka  In 
1838.  Ogata's  school,  which  was  In  existence  till  1862,  and 
of  which  a  most  interesting  and  vivid  account  is  given  In  the 
autobiography  of  his  pupil,  Fukuzawa  Yuklchi,  the  founder 
of  the  Ke'w  Gijiikii,  became  the  center  of  Western  learning 
In  western  Japan,  and  counted  over  three  thousand  pupils, 
among  whom  were  many  leaders  of  new  Japan,  too  nu- 
merous to  mention.  Another  pupil  of  Tsubol,  Sugita  Selkei, 
in  Yedo  also  had  many  distinguished  pupils,  among  whom 
may  be  mentioned  Kanda  Kohel,  who  first  taught  Western 
mathematics  In  the  Kaiseijo,^  and  Sugi  Kojl,  the  father  of 

1  See  page  704.  CV^^U 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

statistics  in  Japan.     Books  on  law  and  politics  were  now 
ordered  to  be  translated  in  the  Translation  Bureau,  though 
solely  for  ofliclal  use.       Mitsukuri  Genpo  wrote  the  Taisei 
Shinju,  the  first  systematic  history  of  Europe ;  while  his  pupil 
and  adopted  son,   Mitsukuri   Selgo,  published  his  Konyo 
Zushiki  (1847),  which  gave  the  general  public  for  the  first 
time  a  tolerably  up-to-date  knowledge  of  the  geography  of 
the  world.     Mitsukuri  also  printed  a  Dutch  grammar  in 
script  characters  by  means  of  wood  blocks  (the  usual  way  in 
those  days),  which  was  a  great  help  to  the  students  of 
Dutch,  for  before  this  they  had  to  copy  the  book  for  them- 
selves before  beginning  to  read  it.    This  continued  to  be  the 
case  with  most  foreign  books  until  well  on  in  the  sixties,  for 
imported  books  were  scarce  and  they  could  not  be  printed  in 
Japan;  the  present  writer  did  not  have  to  do  this  copying, 
but  he  can  remember  his  brother,  elder  by  a  few  years,  copy- 
ing (somewhere  about  1866)  Markham's  "History  of  Eng- 
land," which  he  was  learning  to  read.    Fujil  Saburo  was  the 
first  to  attempt  the  reading  of  English  books,  and  his  Ei  Bun 
Pan  was  the  first  book  published  on  the  subject    (1847). 
About  this  time,  also,  Murakami  Eishun  (1811-1883)  for 
the  first  time  began  to  read  French  books  with  the  help  of  a 
French-Dutch  dictionary. 

By  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century  doctors  practising 
Dutch  medicine  had  become  so  many  and  so  successful,  espe- 
cially in  Yedo,  as  to  cause  serious  uneasiness  to  doctors  of 
the  old  Chinese  school;  and  through  the  influence  of  the 
latter  an  Injunction  was  issued  In  1849,  confining  the  prac- 
tice of  the  Dutch  school  to  surgery  only,  so  that  Ito  Genboku 
and  others  had  to  enroll  themselves  pupils  of  Katsuragawa, 
the  shogun's  surgeon,  before  they  could  practise  publicly! 
Moreover,  it  was  made  necessary  to  obtain  the  permission 
of  the  authorities  of  the  old  Medical  Academy  before  pub- 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

lishlng  any  book  on  the  new  medicine:  this  of  course  was 
tantamount  to  a  prohibition.  It  was  not  much  better  with 
books  other  than  medical:  permission  to  publish  any  work 
relating  to  Western  learning  was  always  granted  very 
grudgingly;  thus,  for  instance,  my  grandfather,  although  he 
was  on  the  staff  of  the  Translation  Bureau,  had  to  wait  for 
two  years  (from  1849  to  1851)  after  the  wood  blocks  had 
been  completed  before  he  could  get  permission  to  publish  his 
Hakko  Tsushi,  a  book  on  geography.  But  even  such  meas- 
ures were  not  sufficient  to  stop  the  introduction  of  Western 
learning,  and  the  coming  of  the  American,  Russian,  and 
English  ships  demanding  the  opening  of  Japan  to  trade,  and 
the  subsequent  change  of  policy  on  the  part  of  the  shogun's 
government,  made  the  knowledge  of  foreign  languages  and 
foreign  matters  in  general  imperative. 

In  looking  back  over  this  period,  the  first  thing  that 
strikes  us  is  the  fact  that  the  first  introduction  of  Western 
knowledge  was  almost  entirely  due  to  doctors  of  medicine, 
who,  however,  as  we  have  seen  above,  did  not  confine  them- 
selves to  medicine  alone.  This  was  due  to  various  circum- 
stances. As  I  have  remarked  before,  about  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century  there  arose  in  Japan  a  remarkable  revo- 
lutionary movement  in  things  intellectual,  a  general  restless- 
ness and  reaction  against  old  authorities,  a  search  for  new 
knowledge;  and  the  doctors  were  almost  the  only  persons 
possessing  sufficient  culture  who  were  likely  to  turn  their 
attention  to  foreign  learning.  Moreover,  the  superiority 
of  the  Dutch  method  in  surgery  had  long  been  acknow- 
ledged, and  their  superiority  in  other  branches  of  medicine 
could  also  be  demonstrated  by  facts  and  appreciated  by  the 
public;  and  thus  this  was  the  door  through  which  Western 
learning  could  enter  with  the  least  resistance. 

I  have  perhaps  not  stated  explicitly  enough  the  difficulties 

1:702] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

and  dangers  confronting  those  who  were  bold  enough  to 
break  through  the  hard  crust  of  custom  and  prejudice  and 
to  attempt  to  learn  a  strange  language  and  so  to  open  an 
avenue  to  a  new  and  alien  learning;  to  do  so  would  require 
too  long  a  digression  into  the  organization  of  the  society 
and  the  character  of  the  civil  administration  of  the  time; 
suffice  it  to  say  that  they  were  very  great,  indeed,  and  some- 
times insuperable.^ 

Special  mention  should,  however,  be  made  of  the  assist- 
ance that  many  of  the  daimyos,  actuated  some  by  true  and 
intelligent  perception  of  the  importance  of  the  new  move- 
ment, others  by  mere  curiosity  or  vanity,  rendered  to  its 
pioneers  by  their  patronage  and  by  giving  them  leisure  to 
pursue  their  study,  as  well  as  by  supplying  them  with  books 
and  other  materials. 


THE  FOURTH  PERIOD 

Interesting  as  it  would  be,  this  is  not  the  place  to  describe 
the  stirring  events  which  followed  the  coming  of  Commo- 
dore Perry  in  1853  and  the  opening  of  the  country  again  to 
foreign  intercourse,  and  led  to  the  "Restoration  of  Meiji''  in 

1 1  cannot  refrain  from  mentioning  one  example  of  these  difficulties     Even 
toward  the  end  of  this  period,  when  it  had  become  comparatively  easy  to  set 
Dutch  books,  it  was  only  through  the  shogun's  officials,  and  with  their  per- 
mission, that  a  private  individual  could  obtain  a  foreign  book,  and  then  not 
more  than  one  a  year.     Often  interpreters  who  accompanied  the  Dutch  chief 
factor  from  Nagasaki  on  his  visit  to  Yedo  brought  some  books  with  them 
which  they  sold  secretly  to  the  Dutch  scholars  at  a  great  profit      In  one  of 
my  grandfather's  (Mitsukuri  Genpo)  letters  to  my  father  (Mitsukuri  Shuhei) 
he  complains  that  the  Dutch,  having  met  with  a  theft  on  the  wav    were  so 
strictly  guarded  that  it  was  impossible  to  get  an  interview  with  them   as 
usual,  and  that  the  interpreters  were  afraid  of  selling  the  books  that  they 
had  brought,  or  else  demanded  such  prices  for  them  that  a  poor  scholar  like 
himself  could  not  afford  to  buy.     Yet  this  very  difficulty  was  often  an  incen- 
tive to  a  new  line  of  study;  as  an  instance,  I  may  mention  the  case  of  Mura- 
kami, who,  failing  to  get  the  Dutch  book  on  chemistry  that  he  wanted    but 
being  supplied  with  a  French  book  in  its  place,  set  to  work  to  learn  to  'read 
French  instead  of  waiting  for  the  Dutch  book,  which  would  be  at  least  eigh- 
teen months  in  coming.  ^ 

1:7033 


tJ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

1868;  we  must  confine  ourselves  to  those   relating  more 
particularly  to  the  subject  in  hand. 

In  1855  the  Translation  Bureau  was  made  independent 
of  the  Observatory,  and  under  the  name  of  Bansho  Shira- 
bejo  (*'An  Institution  for  the  Study  of  Foreign  Books"), 
which  was  finally  changed  to  Kaiseijo,  besides  translation, 
instruction  was  given  in  foreign  languages,  not  only  to  the 
shogun's  immediate  retainers  but  also  to  those  of  daimyos, 
Mitsukuri  Genpo  and  Sugita  Seikei  being  among  the  earliest 
professors.  The  foreign  languages  taught  were  Dutch, 
English,  Russian,  French,  and  German.  A  department  of 
natural  products  (or  natural  history)  was  added  in  1861, 
with  Ito  Keisuke  as  professor;  a  department  of  mathematics 
(although  naturally  of  an  elementary  character)  in  1863, 
with  Kanda  Kohei  as  professor;  and  a  department  of  phys- 
ics and  chemistry  in  1865,  under  a  Dutch  professor  named 
Gratama.     In  1867  the  modern  method  of  class  teaching 

was  introduced. 

In  1863  a  foreign  language  school  was  opened  in  Naga- 
saki by  the  shogunate,  at  which  Chinese,  Dutch,  English, 
French,  and  Russian  were  taught.  Thus  the  instruction  in 
foreign  languages  hitherto  given  only  by  private  persons  was 
now  given  at  those  schools  or  academies  by  professors  ap- 
pointed by  the  government  of  the  shogun.  Some  of  the 
greater  daimyos  followed  the  example  and  established 
schools  for  the  teaching  of  one  or  more  foreign  languages, 
usually  English,  which  now  came  to  be  studied  more  than 
any  other  language— more  even  than  Dutch.  At  the  same 
time  private  tuition  went  on  as  before,  and  some  regular  pri- 
vate schools  were  established,  of  which  that  of  Ogata,  al- 
ready mentioned,  and  that  of  Fukuzawa,  afterward  called 
*'the  Keio  Gijuku/'  were  the  most  notable  examples. 

The  march  of  events  was  such  that  the  injunction  against 

[704] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

the  practice  of  Dutch  medicine  lost  its  effect.  In  1857  Ito 
Genboku,  Totsuka  Seikai,  and  others  opened  a  "vaccination 
institute,"  where  doctors  of  the  new  school  held  meetings, 
there  being  more  than  eighty  of  them  in  Yedo  at  the  time. 
Next  year  Ito  and  Totsuka  were  called  in  to  attend  upon  the 
shogun  in  his  illness.  The  Vaccination  Institute  was  made  a 
governmeni  institution,  with  three  departments  for  instruc- 
tion, for  discussion,  and  for  vaccination.  In  1861  the  name 
was  changed  to  Seiyo  Igakujo  ("The  Academy  of  Western 
Medicine").  In  i860  Matsumoto  Ryojun  opened  a  hos- 
pital in  Nagasaki,  where  he  had  been  studying  under  a  Dutch 
naval  medical  officer  named  Pompe.  The  next  year  this 
hospital  was  turned  into  a  government  school  of  medicine, 
with  a  Dutch  doctor  named  Bowdoin  as  professor;  this  doc- 
tor was  the  first  foreign  professor  employed  by  the  Japanese 
government.  In  1865  physics  and  chemistry  were  added  to 
the  subjects  taught  in  this  institution. 

Missionaries  now  began  to  come  to  the  open  ports  and 
gave  lessons  in  languages;  some  were  engaged  by  daimyos 
to  teach  in  the  interior.  Among  the  missionaries  the  names 
of  the  Americans  Hepburn,  Brown,  and  Verbeck  must  spe- 
cially be  mentioned,  all  men  of  sterling  character  and  attain- 
ments. Dr.  Hepburn  practised  medicine  in  Yokohama;  his 
Japanese-English  dictionary,  the  first  of  its  kind,  is  still  in 
use,  and  the  system  of  transliteration  of  Japanese  characters 
into  the  Latin  alphabet  employed  in  it  has  remained  the 
standard  down  to  the  present  day. 

Books,  translations,  and  original  works  on  various  topics 
now  become  too  numerous  to  enumerate ;  I  shall  mention  only 
two  besides  Hepburn's  dictionary:  one  is  the  English-Jap- 
anese dictionary  compiled  by  Hori  Tatsunosuke,  assisted  by 
teachers  in  the  Kaiseijo,  and  the  other  the  work  entitled 
Seiyo  Jijo,  or  "Things  Western,"  of  Fukuzawa  Yukichi,  in 

1:7053 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

which  he  describes  what  he  had  observed  of  the  Western 
world  during  his  travels  in  America  and  Europe,  whither  he 
went  as  a  translator  to  the  embassies  sent  by  the  shogunate 
to  America  in  i860  and  to  Europe  in  1861.  This  book  did 
more  to  make  the  West  known  to  the  general  public  than 
almost  any  other  book;  indeed,  it  was  unique  at  the  time 
both  in  the  nature  of  its  contents  and  in  the  number  of  copies 

sold. 

In  1862  the  shogun's  government  sent  a  number  of  stu- 
dents to  Holland,  among  whom  were  Enomoto  (afterward 
Viscount,  Minister  of  the  Navy,  of  Education,  etc.)  and 
Akamatsu  (Admiral,  Baron),  to  learn  navigation;  Ito  Gen- 
paku  and  Hayashi  Kenkai  to  study  medicine;  Nishi  Amane 
and  Tsuda  Mamichi,  who  studied  law  (both  afterward 
barons).  The  next  year  four  students  were  sent  to  Russia. 
In  1866  a  party  of  fourteen  students  was  sent  to  England, 
among  whom  were  Nakamura  Masanao,  already  known  as 
a  Chinese  scholar,  and  afterward  a  great  educationalist; 
Toyama  Masakazu  (afterward  professor  and  president  of 
Tokyo  University,  and  Minister  of  Education)  ;  Hayashi 
Tadasu  (Count,  the  present  Minister  of  Communications)  ; 
and  the  present  writer,  the  youngest  of  the  party  (being 
eleven  years  old  at  the  time),  with  his  elder  brother,  Mitsu- 
kuri  Keigo.  Finally,  in  1867,  the  shogun's  brother,  Toku- 
gawa  Minbutayu,  was  sent  to  France  with  another  party  of 
students:  in  his  suite  were  such  men  as  Shibusawa  Eiichi 
(now  Baron)  and  Mitsukuri  Rinsho  (afterward  Baron, 
grandson  of  Genpo).  A  few  of  these  students  came  home 
before  the  Restoration,  but  all  were  recalled  in  1868.  Most 
of  them  afterward  did  good  service  in  the  introduction  of 
Western  learning  into  Japan.  The  Satsuma  clan  also  sent  a 
number  of  students  abroad,  and  a  few  went  on  their  own 
initiative,  among  whom  were  the  late  Prince  Ito  and  Mar- 

[706] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

quis  Inouye:  these  had  to  go  secretly,  as  the  order  forbid- 
ding all  traveling  abroad  was  still  in  force. 

Although  the  shogun's  government  saw  the  necessity  of 
opening  the  country  to  foreign  intercourse,  the  conservativ^es 
all  over  the  country  were  bitterly  opposed  to  such  a  step. 
This  opposition  to  the  foreign  policy  of  the  shogunate,  in- 
separably combined  with  the  more  fundamental  one  based 
on  our  national  constitution,  namely,  that  the  shoguns  were 
usurpers  and  were  wielding  authority  which  properly  be- 
longed to  the  Emperor  alone,  was  the  force  that  ultimately 
brought  about  the  downfall  of  the  shogunate  and  the  "Resto- 
ration of  Meiji."  Conservative  feeling  ran  very  high,  and 
masters  of  the  new  learning  were  now  often  in  danger  of 
their  lives  from  conservative  samurais,  who  regarded  their 
action  as  a  desecration  of  the  land  of  the  Kami  (ancient 
gods  of  Japan).  Sakuma  Shuri  was  assassinated  in  Kyoto 
for  his  open  advocacy  of  the  opening  of  the  country.  It  was 
under  the  cry  of  "Reverence  for  the  Sovereign!''  and  "Ex- 
clusion of  Barbarians !"  that  the  overthrow  of  the  shogunate 
was  effected. 


THE  FIFTH  PERIOD 

We  now  come  to  the  era  of  Meiji,  or  "The  Enlightened 
Government,"  which  began  in  1868  and  ended  with  the 
death  of  Emperor  Meiji  in  July  of  the  present  year  ( 1 9 1 2 ) . 
The  accession  of  the  Emperor  took  place  in  the  beginning, 
and  the  resignation  of  Keiki,  the  last  of  the  shoguns,  toward 
the  end,  of  the  preceding  year.  A  few  disaffected  followers 
of  the  shogun  took  up  arms  against  the  imperial  banner,  but 
were  put  down  without  very  great  difficulty,  and  thenceforth 
the  Emperor  reigned  in  fact  as  well  as  in  name.  Although 
the  cry  for  the  overthrow  of  the  shogunate  had  been 
"Reverence  for  the  Sovereign!''  and  "Exclusion  of  Barba- 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

rians!",  yet  the  leaders  of  the  movement  knew  well  that  the 
last  was  neither  practicable  nor  desirable;  and  on  the  four- 
teenth day  of  the  third  month  of  the  first  year  of  Meiji 
(April  6,  1868),  the  Emperor  summoned  the  imperial 
princes  and  high  officials  of  his  court,  and  in  the  Shishindeu, 
or  throne-room,  of  the  old  palace  in  Kyoto  swore  the  mem- 
orable oath  known  as  'The  Imperial  Oath  of  Five  Articles," 
setting  forth  the  policy  which  was  to  be  followed  by  him 
thereafter.    The  five  articles  were  as  follows:^ 

I.  Deliberative  assemblies  shall  be  established,  and  all 
measures  of  government  shall  be  decided  by  public 

opinion. 
II.  All  classes,  high  and  low,  shall  unite  in  vigorously 
carrying  out  the  plan  of  government. 

III.  Officials,  civil  and  mihtary,  and  all  common  people 

shall,  as  far  as  possible,  be  allowed  to  fulfil  their 
just  desires,  so  that  there  may  not  be  any  discon- 
tent among  them. 

IV.  Uncivilized  customs  of  former  times  shall  he  broken 

through,  and  everything  shall  be  based  upon  just 
and  equitable  principles  of  nature. 
V.  Knowledge    shall    he    sought    for    throughout    the 
world,  so  that  the  welfare  of  the  Empire  may  be 
promoted. 

In  pursuance  of  the  policy  set  forth  in  the  above  oath,  the 
first  ten  years  of  the  Meiji  era  were  occupied  mainly  in 
breaking  up  the  established  order  of  things  and  substituting 
a  new  one;  although,  as  for  the  latter,  a  much  longer  period 
elapsed  before  anything  satisfactory  could  be  arranged. 
Many  great  and  radical  changes  were  made,  of  which  the 

1  The  translation  is  that  of  Dr.  Hozumi  Nobushige,  Enneritus  Professor  of 
Law  in  the  Imperial  University  of  Tokyo. 

1:708  3 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

greatest  by  far  was  the  abolition  of  the  feudal  system,  which 
was  completed  in  1871 :  the  daimyos,  or  great  military  lords, 
gave  up,  of  their  own  free  will,  all  their  lands  and  the  power 
of  life  and  death  over  their  retainers  and  people  within  their 
respective  territories,  receiving  in  compensation  pensions 
which  were  afterward  commuted  into  national  bonds.  A 
new  system  of  civil  administration  was  introduced,  and  laws 
were  revised.  The  wearing  of  swords  by  samurais  was  for- 
bidden, the  army  and  navy  were  reorganized,  and  a  system 
of  universal  conscription  elaborated,  so  that  the  samurais, 
or  military  class,  no  longer  were  allowed  to  monopolize  the 
civil  and  military  services. 

Schools  established  by  the  shogunate  and  closed  at  its 
overthrow  were  reopened  as  soon  as  order  V7as  restored, 
and  many  new  schools  were  opened  both  by  the  central  and 
the  local  government  (those  of  the  daimyos  before  the  aboli- 
tion of  feudal  clans).  Many  private  schools  for  the  teach- 
ing of  Western  knowledge  flourished,  among  which  may  be 
specially  mentioned  the  Keio  Gijuku  of  Fukuzawa,  the  Sansa 
Gakusha  of  Mitsukuri  Shuhei  (father  of  the  writer),  and 
the  Doninsha  of  Nakamura  Masanao.  Of  Fukuzawa  it  is 
related  that  in  May,  1868,  while  fighting  was  going  on  in 
Ueno  (now  Ueno  Park,  Tokyo)  between  the  imperial  army 
and  some  retainers  of  the  shogun,  Fukuzawa  continued  to 
hold  his  classes  in  another  part  of  the  city,  and  his  school 
was  not  closed  for  a  single  day. 

In  1872  the  first  Education  Code  was  promulgated,  by 
which  a  national  educational  system  was  introduced  for  the 
first  time.  According  to  this,  the  whole  country  was  to  be 
divided  into  8  university  districts,  each  with  a  university; 
each  university  district  was  to  be  subdivided  into  32  middle 
school  districts,  each  with  a  middle  school;  and  each  middle 
school  district  was  again  to  be  subdivided  into  210  elemen- 


■■•ti 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 
tary  school  districts,  each  with  an  elementary  school,  so  that 
there  would  be   8   universities,    256   middle   schools,    and 
53,760  elementary  schools  in  the  whole  country:  the  elemen- 
tary  school  education  was  to  be  compulsory  for  all  classes 
and  both  sexes.     At  the  same  time  as  the  promulgation  of 
the  new  code,  all  existing  schools  supported  by  the  govern- 
ment,  central  or  local,  were  to  be  reorganized  so  as  to  be 
brought  into  conformity  with  its  provisions  or  else  be  closed. 
The  scheme  of  the  code,  however,  proved  too  ambitious  to 
be  carried  out  in  its  entirety.     In  fact,  in  this,  as  in  many 
other  forms  that  followed  the  Restoration,  we  began  with 
copying  too  closely  the  system  or  model  of  some  one  coun- 
try,  and  that  not  always  the  one  best  suited  to  our  circum- 
stances,  sometimes  trying  one  model  after  another  in  our 
effort  to  find  out  what  was  the  best;  but  gradually,  as  our 
knowledge  has  increased  and  our  field  of  vision  become 
widened,  we  have  tried  to  adapt  and  make  it  more  suitable 
to  our  own  needs,  by  a  careful  consideration  not  only  of 
systems  and  methods  of  different  countries  in  theory  and 
practice,  but  also  of  our  own  customs,  usages,  and  traditions, 
and  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  the  times,  which  at  first 

were  often  overlooked. 

We  cannot  go  afield  into  the  whole  question  of  the  educa- 
tional system,  but  must  confine  ourselves  to  the  introduction 
of  Western  learning.  Before  the  coming  of  Commodore 
Perry  this  was  naturally  most  easily  effected  through  the 
medium  of  the  Dutch  language,  which,  indeed,  may  be  said 
to  have  been  the  only  channel  then  available.  But  with  the 
opening  of  the  country  to  foreign  intercourse,  the  English 
language  began  to  be  more  generally  studied,  as  it  was  the 
current  language  of  the  East.  American  missionaries  helped 
to  spread  the  knowledge  of  it  among  the  Japanese  people, 
many  of  them  becoming  teachers  in  schools  after  the  Resto- 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

ration.  The  study  of  foreign  languages  in  general,  which 
had  presented  such  great  difficulties  and  even  dangers  in  the 
earlier  days,  was  now  stripped  of  all  extraneous  difficulties 
and  encouraged  and  made  a  part  of  the  higher  common  edu- 
cation, so  that  from  that  time  on  mere  study  of  foreign 
languages  scarcely  comes  within  the  scope  of  our  subject.  In 
private  schools  for  foreign  languages,  however,  students 
were  often  of  mature  age  and  had  had  previous  culture  in 
Chinese  literature;  they  read  works  on  politics  and  econom- 
ics, on  Western  philosophy  and  other  abstruse  subjects,  as 
well  as  books  on  history,  geography,  and  other  common  sub- 
jects, with  a  view  to  mastering  the  subject-matter,  and  conse- 
quently a  knowledge  of  those  subjects  became  more  general. 
Gradually,  as  higher  common  education  spread,  and  with  it 
the  study  of  English,  these  private  schools  lost  in  large  part 
their  raison  d'etre,  and  in  the  eighties  most  of  them  were 
either  closed  or  transformed  partly  or  wholly  into  middle 
schools  for  higher  common  education,  or  into  colleges  for 
the  teaching  of  special  subjects. 

In  the  Kaiseijo  (i\cademy  for  Foreign  Languages)  estab- 
lished by  the  shogunate  and  reopened  by  the  new  govern- 
ment, the  same  kind  of  tuition  as  In  private  schools  was 
carried  on  by  Japanese  teachers  for  some  time,  side  by  side 
with  the  new  and  systematic  instruction  in  foreign  languages 
under  Japanese  and  foreign  teachers;  but  soon  the  former 
part  was  discontinued,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  provisions 
were  made  for  instruction  in  law,  some  branches  of  science 
and  engineering,  and  in  history,  philosophy,  and  literature, 
with  a  view  to  make  It  a  nucleus  for  a  university.  In  1877 
the  Kaiseijo  and  the  Igakujo  (see  pages  705,  715,  and  717) 
were  Incorporated  as  the  University  of  Tokyo,  with  four 
faculties  of  law,  science,  literature,  and  medicine,  to  be  again 
reorganized  in  1886  Into  the  present  Imperial  University  of 

1:710 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Tokyo  (by  amalgamation  with  the  Engineering  College,  for- 
n,erly  under  the  Department  of  Public  Works),  w.th  five 
"colleges  "  or  faculties,  of  law,  medicine,  engmeenng,  liter- 
ature,  and  science,  to  which  was  afterward  (1890)  added  a 
College  of  Agriculture.  Let  us  now  briefly  consider  the 
development  of  these  faculties  or  colleges. 

Before  the  Meiji  era  scarcely  any  attention  had  been  paid 
to  Western  laws  and  political  science;  the  few  books  on 
these   subjects  that  had  been  translated  by  order  of  the 
shogun's  officials  had  not  been  made  public,  it  being  the 
policy  of  the  shogunate  to  suppress  all  political  discussions 
as  much  as  possible.     With  the  Restoration  all  this  was 
changed.     The  reorganization  of  civil  administration  and 
the  revision  of  laws  and  legal  procedure  required  a  know- 
ledge of  Western  facts  and  ideas  on  those  subjects,  and 
books  bearing  on  them  began  to  be  eagerly  studied  in  the 
orialnal  or  in  translations.     Accordingly,  those  who  had 
acq'uired  some  legal  knowledge  of  the  West,  such  as  Tsuda 
Mamichi,  Nishi  Amane,  Mitsukuri  Rinsho,  and  others,  were 
in  great  demand.     A  translation  of  the  Code  Napoleon 
made  by  the  last  named  was  an  important  work,  and  contrib- 
uted greatly  to  the  spreading  of  the  knowledge  of  Western 
legal  ideas.    In  1873  a  French  legal  expert,  M.  Boissonade, 
was  engaged  as  adviser  to  the  Department  of  Justice. 

It  is  not  the  province  of  this  paper  to  trace  the  history  of 
the  codification  of  Japanese  laws,  which  occupied  a  period 
of  some  forty  years,  but  it  may  be  briefly  stated  that  the  first 
draft,  a  close  copy  of  the  French  code,  was  considerably 
modified  through  a  greater  attention  paid  to  the  old  and 
established  customs  and  usages  of  the  country,  and  by  the 
taking  into  consideration  of  the  laws  of  other  lands,  espe- 
cially of  Germany.  In  this  we  have  another  very  good  in- 
stance of  what  we  have  stated  above  in  connection  with  the 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

educational  system.  The  names  of  Professors  Hozumi 
Nobushige,  Tomii  Masaakira,  and  Ume  Kenjiro,  of  the  Im- 
perial University,  Tokyo,  must  be  mentioned  even  in  this 
brief  notice;  for  to  them  and  to  Mitsukuri  Rinsho  more  than 
to  any  others  is  due  the  credit  of  the  successful  accomplish- 
ment of  the  work  of  codification. 

A  school  was  opened  in  1872  under  the  Department  of 
Justice  to  give  instruction  in  French  law,  while  in  the  Kai- 
seijo  a  course  in  English  law  was  opened  in  1874,  as  stated 
above.     W^e  find  in  the  calendar  of  Tokyo  University  for 
1878  three  professors  of  English  law,  one  Englishman,  one 
American,  and  one  Japanese,  the  American  being  Professor 
H.  T.  Terry  (Yale,  '69),  who  has  just  retired  this  summer 
(1912),  and  the  Japanese,  Inouye  Ryoichi,  one  of  the  first 
two  Japanese  graduates  of  Harvard  Law  School.     There 
were  also  some  lecturers  on  old  Japanese  laws.    In  1885  the 
school  of  French  law  was  transferred  to  the  university,  and 
in  1887  a  course  of  German  law  was  added.    As  the  work  of 
legislation  progressed,  lectures  on  Japanese  law  were  given 
at  first  as  auxiliary  subjects,  but  finally  they  came  to  be  the 
main  subjects,  while  lectures  continue  to  this  day  to  be  given 
on  English,  French,  and  German  law  as  auxiliary  subjects. 
Public  laws,  political  sciences,  and  economics  also  now  form 
a  part  of  the  curriculum  of  the  Law  College,  which  at  pres- 
ent consists  of  the  four  sections  of  law,  politics,  economics, 
and  commerce.     I  cannot  do  better  than  sum  up  by  quoting 
Professor  Tomii's  remarks:  "Thus  the  two  decades  imme- 
diately subsequent  to  the  Restoration  were  characterized  by 
prevalence  of  the  study  of  French,  English,  and  American 
laws.  .  .  .  But  times  changed.    The  past  twenty  years  have 
witnessed  the  rise  and  ascendancy  of  German  law,  and  a 
tendency  has  grown  up  to  take  it  as  the  model  in  studying 
jurisprudence  and  legislative  work,  whether  in  the  domain 

1:713: 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

of  public  or  of  private  law Recent  developments  have 

been  remarkable,  and  the  stage  of  imitation  has  already  been 
left  behind."  ("Fifty  Years  of  New  Japan,"  by  Count 
Okuma  )  These  remarks  will  apply  also  to  political  and 
economic  sciences,  as  indeed  to  almost  all  branches  of  learn- 
ing introduced  from  the  West.  .,     ,    •  • 

Early  in  the  eighties,  owing  to  changes  in  civil  adminis- 
tration and  in  laws  and  legal  procedure,  there  was  felt  a 
great  want  of  men  having  special  knowledge  of  these  sub- 
jects, and  the  single  University  of  Tokyo  not  being  able  to 
turn  out  a  sufficient  number  of  such  men,  several  colleges 
were  started  by  private  individuals,  who  disinterestedly  gave 
some  of  their  leisure  hours  to  teaching  in  them;  the  first  of 
these  was  the  Senshu  Gakko,  opened  in   1880  by  Tajiri 
Inaiiro  (a  Yale  graduate)  and  others  to  give  instruction  in 
law  and  economics.    This  was  followed  within  a  few  years 
by  many  others,   among  which  was  the  fVaseda  Senmon 
Gakko  of  Count  Okuma.     The  Keio  Gijuku  also  changed 
its  organization  so  as  to  have  college  courses  in  law,  political 
economy,  and  literature.    In  Tokyo  University  itself  a  spe- 
cial course  was  organized  temporarily,  in  which  instruction 
was  given  in  Japanese  for  those  who  had  not  passed  through 
the  preparatory  course,  so  as  to  enable  them  to  follow  the 
regular  course  of  lectures.    It  may  be  mentioned  here  that 
in  almost  every  subject  lectures  in  the  university  were  given 
at  first  in  some  foreign  language  (German  in  the  case  of 
medicine,   EngUsh  in  others),   not  by   foreign  professors 
alone,  but  by  Japanese  professors  as  well;  for  it  was  very 
difficult  to  find  proper  translations  not  only  of  technical 
terms,  but   also   for  necessary  technical   expressions   and 
phrases,  these  being  even  more  troublesome  than  simple 
terms  on  account  of  the  peculiar  nature  of  the  Japanese 
language.    Indeed,  one  of  the  initial  difficulties  in  the  intro- 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

duction  of  Western  learning  may  be  said  to  have  lain  in  the 
difficulty  of  translation,  our  language  being  so  radically  dif- 
ferent in  its  structure  from  European  languages.    Thus  the 
lectures  in  Japanese  to  special  classes  served  the  double 
purpose  of  turning  out  a  large  number  of  moderately  well 
trained  men,  and  of  giving  professors  a  good  exercise  in  lec- 
turing in  Japanese  on  technical  subjects.    The  opening  of 
such  special  classes  in  the  university  for  a  time  was  not  con- 
fined to  the  law  faculty,  but  was  found  necessary  in  other 
faculties  also.     However,  to  return  to  private  colleges,  the 
maintenance  of  such  is  somewhat  difficult  in  Japan,  as  no 
large  fees  can  be  charged  owing  to  the  poverty  of  most  of 
the  students,  and  endowments  such  as  are  so  common  in 
America  cannot  be  expected,  those  even  of  IVaseda  and 
Keio  being  quite  insignificant  in  comparison  with  the  endow- 
ments of  even  smaller  colleges  in  America.    In  those  earlier 
days  of  the  Meiji  era,  when  the  number  of  students  was 
small,  most  of  the  founders  were  themselves  teachers  who 
gave  their  time  and  services  free,  besides  in  many  cases  con- 
tributing to  the  expenses  of  maintenance.    For  this  reason, 
there  are  but  very  few  private  colleges  of  medicine,  science, 
or  engineering,  their  establishment  and  maintenance  being 
too  costly  to  be  supported  by  fees.     I  may  mention  inci- 
dentally that  most  of  these  private  colleges  have  now  as- 
sumed the  more  ambitious  title  of  universities. 

As  the  introduction  of  Western  learning  previous  to  the 
Meiji  era  had  been  due  almost  exclusively  to  doctors  of 
medicine,  although  happily  they  did  not  confine  their  atten- 
tion to  medicine  alone,  it  was  natural  that  at  the  outset  more 
progress  should  have  been  made  in  medicine  than  in  other 
subjects,  and  it  was  In  medicine  that  systematic  instruction 
was  first  introduced  after  the  Restoration.  The  Igakujo 
was  one  of  the  schools  reopened  by  the  new  government, 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

and  with  it  was  incorporated  a  hospital  newly  opened  by  the 
government  under  the  direction  of  an  English  surgeon   Dr. 
Willis     The  government,  however,  having  decided  to  Ger- 
manize medical  education,  Dr.  Willis  left  the  hospital  and 
went  to  Kagoshima,  where  until  1877  he  taught  in  a  medical 
school  with  great  success.    Meanwhile  two  German  doctors, 
Muller  and  Hoffmann,   were   engaged  in  the  I^aku]o   in 
1 87 1,  and  organized  a  system  of  medical  instruction  con- 
sisting of  a  five-vear  preliminary  or  general  course  and  a 
five-year  special  or  medical  course.     Almost  all  the  profes- 
sors and  teachers,  including  teachers  in  German,  Latin,  and 
elementary  mathematics,  had  to  be  brought  from  Germany. 
As  the  number  of  those  who  could  enter  this  regular  course 
of  ten  vears  was  limited,  owing  to  the  lack  of  accommoda- 
tion and  equipment,  while  on  the  other  hand  the  demand  for 
doctors  of  the  Western  school  was  great  and  insistent,  a 
short  special  medical  course  was  opened,  in  which  instruction 
was   given   in   Japanese  by  Japanese   professors.      In  the 
calendar  for  1877  we  find  the  names  of  eleven  German  pro- 
fessors  and  teachers,  besides  seven  Japanese  professors  en- 
gaged in  teaching  the  students  of  the  short  course.     This 
course  was  afterward  discontinued,  as  several  colleges  of 
medicine  came  to  be  established  in  different  Parts  of  the 
country  to  carry  on  a  similar  work.    The  College  of  Medi- 
cine in  the  university  itself  has  gradually  grown  to  be  a  large 
body  with  twenty-seven  professors,  all  Japanese,  including 
four  in  pharmacy,  and  nineteen  assistant  professors  and  lec- 
turers, and  nearly  eight  hundred  students. 

With  regard  to  science  and  its  application,  we  have  seen 
that  translations  of  books  on  various  scientific  subjects  had 
been  made  by  Dutch  scholars,  some  of  the  more  important 
of  which  we  have  mentioned  above.  But  there  must  have 
been  manv  that  were  not  printed  or  even  privately  circulated, 

1:716:1 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

for  there  are  in  possession  of  the  writer's  family  translations 
of  works  on  astronomy,  geology,  mineralogy,  etc.,  left  in 
manuscript  by  Mitsukuri  Genpo,  and  no  doubt  there  were 
similar  manuscripts  left  by  others.  In  Western  mathematics, 
physics,  and  chemistry,  teaching  of  the  elementary  parts  was 
begun  in  the  Kaiseijo  before  the  Restoration,  as  already 
stated,  but  it  was  not  revived  for  some  time  after  the  school 
was  reopened.     In  astronomy  such  practical  knowledge  had 
been  introduced  as  was  necessary  for  the  compilation  of  al- 
manacs.    In  natural  history  some  advance  had  been  made 
in  systematic  botany.    As  for  applications  of  science  to  prac- 
tical purposes,  but  little  knowledge  had  been  introduced. 

On  the  promulgation  of  the  first  Education  Code,  the 
Kaiseijo  was  made  a  middle  school,  the  instruction  being 
given  in  a  foreign  language  (English,  French,  or  German), 
mostly  by   foreign  instructors.     Soon   after  courses  were 
opened  in  special  subjects,  of  which  the  one  in  English  law 
has  been  already  noticed.    The  other  courses  were  those  of 
physics,  chemistry  (pure  and  applied),  mining  and  metal- 
lurgy, civil  and  mechanical  engineering,  and  literature  and 
philosophy.    In  the  calendar  for  1876  we  find  eighteen  for- 
eign professors  and  instructors,  including  two  professors  of 
English  law.     The  incorporation  of  the  Kaiseijo  and  the 
Igakujo  into  the  University  of  Tokyo  in  1877  gave  a  great 
impetus  to  the  study  of  science.    Mathematics  was  made  one 
of  the  main  subjects    (previously  it  had  been  merely  an 
auxiliary  subject  for  engineering  students),  and  the  study  of 
its  higher  branches  was  entered  upon.    The  appointment  of 
Dr.  Fujisawa  Rikitaro  in  1888  as  professor  of  mathematics 
in  conjunction  with  the  present  writer  gave  a  new  impetus  to 
the  study  of  higher  mathematics.     The  year  1877  saw  the 
foundation  of  the  Tokyo  Mathematical  Society,  which  is  the 
first  of  many  scientific  societies  now  existing,  and  which  has 

1:717:1 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

since  developed  into  the  present  Tokyo  Mathematico-physi- 
cal  Society,  holding  monthly  meetings  for  the  readmg  of 
original  papers  on  mathematics,  astronomy,  and  physics,  and 
publishing  them  (in  Japanese,  English,  or  German)  m  .ts 
proceedings  and  transactions.  ,     .    „    /   r.  , 

In  physics  the  coming  of  Professor  Mendenhall     after- 
ward superintendent  of  the  United  States  Coast  and  Geo- 
detic   Survey)    marks   the   beginning   of  the   teachmg   of 
experimental  physics  and  of  original  investigations.     He 
was  succeeded  by  Professor  Ewing,  whose  work  on  hysteresis 
was  begun  in  Japan ;  and  their  work  has  been  ably  earned  on 
by  their  pupils  and  successors,  Tanakadate  Aikitu,  Nagaoka 
Hantaro,  and  others.     Instruction  in  practical  astronomy 
was  started  by  Professor  Paul,  of  the  United  States  Naval 
Observatory,  who  was  succeeded  by  Professor  Terao;  and 
although  from  its  nature  astronomy  does  not  possess  many 
votaries  in  Japan,  and  although  the  university  observatory 
is  at  present  but  poorly  equipped,  Japanese  astronomers 
have  made  some  contributions  to  the  science,  as,  for  exam- 
ple in  the  observations  of  variations  of  latitude,  for  which 
an  'international  observatory  has  been  established  in  Mizu- 
sawa  and  placed  under  the  direction  of  Dr.  Kimura,  whose 
discovery  of  the  z-term  in  the  equation  of  the  variation  of 
latitude  has  recently  been  awarded  a  prize  by  the  Imperial 
Academy  of  Tokyo.     In  chemistry,  pure  and  applied,  we 
had  Professors  Atkinson  (English),  Wagener  (German), 
and  Jowett  (now  of  Oberlin  College),  whose  places  were 
not  long  after  taken  by  the  Japanese  professors,  Sakurai 
Jojl  and  Matsui  Naokichi :  the  former  still  occupies  the  chair 
of  chemistry  in  the  Imperial  University,  and  during  his  long 
career  of  over  twenty-five  years  in  the  university  has  con- 
tributed both  by  his  teaching  and  original  researches  not 
simply  to  the  introduction  of  that  science  Into  Japan,  but  to 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

the  advance  of  the  science  itself;  while  the  latter,  too,  did 
great  service  not  only  in  the  introduction  of  chemistry,  but 
also  of  scientific  agriculture  in  his  capacity  as  director  of  the 
College  of  Agriculture  from  its  amalgamation  with  the  uni- 
versity in  1890  to  his  death  in  1910. 

In  natural  sciences,  Dr.  E.  S.  Morse,  of  Salem,  Massachu- 
setts, came  in  1877  as  professor  of  zoology;  he  established 
the  first  zoological  laboratory  in  the  university,  and  was  also 
the  first  to  expound  to  the  Japanese  public,  by  a  series  of 
public  lectures,  the  Darwinian  theory  of  the  origin  of  species 
and  the  descent  of  man.     He  was  succeeded  by  Professor 
Whitman,  late  of  Chicago  University,  after  whom  the  chair 
was  occupied  by  Dr.  Mitsukuri   Kakichi    (brother  of  the 
writer),  supported  by  his  colleague.  Professor  lijima  Isao, 
who   had   been   a   pupil   of  Whitman,    and   afterward   of 
Leuckart  in  Leipsic.    The  chair  of  botany  was  occupied  from 
the  first  (1877)  by  a  Japanese,  Yatabe  Ryokichi,  a  graduate 
of  Cornell,  with  Dr.  Ito  Keisuke,  then  over  seventy  years  of 
age,  as  honorary  professor.    To  these  men  is  due  the  credit 
of  having  introduced  into  Japan  modern  methods  In  biology, 
the  elements  of  which  now  form  a  part  of  the  curriculum  of 
common  education. 

Geology,  mining,  and  metallurgy  also  began  to  be  taught 
in  the  Kaiseijo.  Professor  Munroe,  now  of  Columbia  Uni- 
versity, was  the  first  professor  of  geology  and  mineralogy; 
after  him  we  had  a  series  of  professors  from  Germany.  On 
the  organization  of  Tokyo  University,  geology,  with  the 
allied  sciences  of  mineralogy  and  paleontology,  was  sepa- 
rated from  mining  and  metallurgy.  Civil  and  mechanical 
engineering  was  likewise  begun  in  the  Kaiseijo,  and  after- 
ward formed  a  section  in  the  faculty  of  science  in  Tokyo 
University. 

Systematic  meteorological   observations   were   begun   at 

1:7193 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

the  suggestion  of  a  German,  Dr.  Knipping,  a  teacher  in  the 
Kaiseijo,  and  a  central  meteorological  observatory  was  es- 
tablished and  placed  under  his  direction.  At  present  it  is 
under  a  Japanese  superintendent  and  staff,  and  is  in  tele- 
graphic communication  with  numerous  stations  all  over  the 
country,  including  Formosa,  Korea,  and  Manchuria.  It  is 
not  strictly  proper  to  speak  of  seismology  as  introduced 
from  the  West,  for  it  may  be  said  to  have  originated  in 
Japan  with  the  investigations  of  Professors  Wagener, 
Milne,  Gray,  Ewing,  Knott,  Sekiya,  Omori,  and  others;  but 
its  first  investigators  came  from  Europe,  and  its  methods 
are  those  of  the  Western  science. 

The  Department  of  Public  Works   (not  now  existing), 
being  in  urgent  need  of  a  large  number  of  trained  engineers 
to  carry  out  its  various  works,  opened  an  engineering  school 
as  early  as  1871;  in  1873  it  invited  from  Great  Britain  a 
band  of  professors,  with  Dr.  H.  Dyer  as  principal,^  and  in- 
cluding, among  others,  such  men  as  E.  Divers,  J.  Milne,  W. 
E.  Ayrton,  J.  Perry,  and  T.  Gray.  They  organized  an  engi- 
neering college,  entirely  British  in  its  character ;  students  were 
dressed  in  a  uniform,  of  which  a  Scotch  cap  formed  a  part, 
and  were  lodged  and  boarded  in  British  style  under  a  purely 
British  management.    There  were  sections  of  civil  engineer- 
ing, mechanical  engineering,  architecture,  telegraphy,  chem- 
istry, and  metallurgy  and  mining.     Many  of  the  foremost 
engineers  of  the  present  day  are  graduates  of  this  college. 
In  1 886  the  college  was  incorporated  with  Tokyo  University 
to  form  the  Imperial  University  of  Tokyo,  of  which,  to- 
gether with  the  engineering  sections  of  Tokyo  University,  it 
became  the  College  (or  Faculty)  of  Engineering. 

The  first  introduction  of  scientific  agriculture  must  be 
attributed  to  General  Capron,  chief  of  the  Agricultural  Bu- 
reau of  the  United  States,  who  came  to  Japan  in  1871  as 

1:720] 


H 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

adviser  to  the  Hokkaido  (Yezo)  Colonization  Bureau.    At 
his  suggestion  an  agricultural  college  was  established  in  Sap- 
poro with  a  staff  of  American  instructors  to  train  men  to 
become  leaders  in  the  work  of  the  colonization  of  Hokkaido ; 
several  students  were  also  sent  to  America,  and  it  is  to  be 
noted  that  among  these  students  were  several  young  girls, 
the  first  sent  abroad  by  the  government  (Princess  Oyama, 
Baroness  Uriu,  Miss  Tsuda,  among  others).     Hokkaido, 
and  in  particular  the  Agricultural  College,  was  thus  very 
much  under  American  influence  at  the  start,  and  retains  to 
this  day  traces  of  that  influence  (the  present  director  of  the 
college  was  its  former  pupil  and  afterward  a  graduate  of 
Johns  Hopkins).     The  college,  however,  has  lately  come 
under  German  influence,  which,  as  already  remarked,  has 
been  predominant  in  the  domain  of  higher  learning  during 
the  last  two  decades  or  more;  it  now  forms  a  part  of  the 
Northwestern  Imperial  University  as  its  college  of  agricul- 
ture.   In  the  meantime  an  agricultural  school  was  opened  in 
Tokyo  as  early  as  1877,  and  a  school  of  forestry  in  1881 ; 
the  two  schools  were  amalgamated  in  1886  to  form  a  col- 
lege, which  again  became  a  part  of  the  Imperial  University 
of  Tokyo  in  1890,  and  has  at  present  five  sections  of  agri- 
culture, agricultural  chemistry,  forestry,  veterinary  science, 
and  aquatic  products.    This  college  was  from  the  first  under 
German  influence,  several  of  its  first  professors  having  been 
Germans. 

In  literature  we  have  always  had  an  American  or  an  Eng- 
lish professor  of  English  literature,  from  the  days  of  the  old 
Kaiseijo  soon  after  the  Restoration  down  to  the  present  day, 
in  the  Imperial  University  of  Tokyo,  besides  instructors  in 
the  English  language.  So  also  there  have  been  a  German 
professor  of  German  literature  and  a  French  professor  of 
French  literature,  although  these  chairs  were  not  established 

1:721] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

until  a  much  later  date.     Of  course,  Japanese  and  Chinese 
literatures  have  always  formed  a  part  of  the  curriculum  of 
the  university,  and  I  should  not  mention  them  here,  for  they 
do  not  come  under  the  category  of  Western  learmng,  but  for 
the  remarkable  fact-which  well  illustrates  the  spirit  that 
actuated  the  university  authorities  of  those  days-that  about 
1887  an  Englishman,  Professor  B.  H.  Chamberlain,  was  for 
a  time  appointed  to  lecture  on  philology  and  Japanese  liter- 
ature.    Professor  Chamberlain  was,   indeed,   a  profound 
Japanese  scholar,  but  there  were  many  Japanese  who  were 
better  scholars  than  he;  they,  however,  did  not  know  the 
modern  methods  and  could  not  give  such  systematic  exposi- 
tion  as   Professor  Chamberlain.      Lectures   are   also   now 
being  given  in  Russian  literature.     In  the  Imperial  Umver- 
sity  of  Kyoto  lectures  on  English  and  German  literatures  are 
criven  by  Japanese  professors,  as  also  in  the  private  univer- 
Titles  of  IFaseda  and  Keio.    There  is  a  great  deal  of  inter- 
est  taken  in  recent  works  of  modern  European  novelists  and 
dramatists,  especially  of  Russian  and  Scandinavian  writers, 
among  a  section  of  young  Japan,  which  no  doubt  will  have 
some  influence  on  the  future  intellectual  life  of  Japan,  but  it 
seems  rather  doubtful  whether  they  will  seriously  affect  the 

mass  of  the  people. 

The  culture  of  the  pre-Meiji  era  had  been  founded  on 
Chinese  classics  and  Buddhist  philosophy,  and  in  the  earlier 
days  of  the  introduction  of  Western  learning  little  or  noth- 
ing was  known  of  Western  philosophy;  but  shortly  before 
the  Restoration,  books  on  the  subject  began  to  be  introduced, 
and  for  some  time  thereafter  such  works  as  the  text-books  on 
ethics  and  political  economy  by  Dr.  F.  Wayland,  of  Brown 
University,  were  read  in  schools  of  the  English  language;  in 
higher  classes,  Guizot  and  Buckle  were  read,  while  in 
French  schools  Montesquieu  and  Rousseau  were  used.     In 

[722] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

the  Kaiseijo  logic  and  psychology  were  taught  with  Mill, 
Fowler  (deductive  logic),  Haven's  ^'Mental  Philosophy,'* 
etc.,  as  text-books.    On  Professor  Toyama's  (see  page  706) 
return  from  America  in  1876,  where  he  had  graduated  at 
Ann  Arbor,  works  of  Bain,  Jevons,  and  Spencer  were  intro- 
duced, and  Professor  Toyama  began  to  lecture  on  Spencer- 
ian    philosophy,    which    became    very    popular    in    Japan. 
Professor  Fenollosa,  who  afterward  did  so  much  to  make 
Japanese  art  known  to  the  Western  public,  came  out  to  Japan 
when  as  professor  of  philosophy,  and  introduced  students 
to  German  and  especially  to  Hegelian  philosophy.     About 
1890  Dr.  Inouye  Tetsujiro  came  back  from  Germany,  and 
by  his  wide  reading  and  retentive  memory  has  been  of  emi- 
nent service  in  introducing  students  to  various  phases  of 
Occidental    and   Oriental   philosophy.      Lotze,    Nietzsche, 
Schopenhauer,  etc.,  have  not  been  without  their  exponents  in 
Japan.    Experimental  psychology  was  introduced  by  Profes- 
sor  Motora   Yujiro    (a   graduate   of  Johns   Hopkins)    in 
Tokyo  and  by  Professor  Matsumoto  Matataro  (a  graduate 
of  Yale)  In  Kyoto.     Christian  theology  has  not  occupied  a 
prominent  position  either  in  Tokyo  or  Kyoto  Imperial  Uni- 
versities, although  touched  upon  by  Dr.  Anesaki  in  Tokyo 
and  Dr.  Gulick  (of  Doshisha)  in  their  lectures  on  the  science 
of  religion.    There  are,  however,  several  Christian  colleges 
supported  by  missions  or  by  endowments,  where  It  Is  the 
principal  subject  of  Instruction.     The  Doshisha  In  Kyoto, 
founded  by  Dr.  Neeshlma  and  maintained  largely  by  endow- 
ments from  America,  must  be  specially  mentioned  In  this 
connection ;  It  has  this  year  ( 1 9 1 2 )  made  a  new  departure  In 
opening  a  college  of  law  and  economics. 

Before  closing  this  hasty  and  rough  account  of  the  Intro- 
duction of  various  branches  of  Western  learning.  It  Is  proper 
that  I  should  say  a  few  words  about  foreign  professors. 

1:7233 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

They  generally  come  out  to  Japan  on  a  contract  to  serve  for 
a  term,  usually  of  three  years,  which  is  renewed  from  time 
to  time  if  satisfactory  to  both  parties.    Thus  no  small  num- 
ber of  them  have  occupied  their  positions  for  fifteen,  twenty, 
or  even  more  than  twenty-five  years,  so  as  to  celebrate  their 
silver  jubilees,  and  have  retired  with  a  decoration  from  the 
Emperor,  a  pension  from  the  government,  and  the  title  of 
honorary  professor  from  the  university.     Very  often  we 
have  had  to  part  with  a  good  professor  because  he  had  been 
offered  a  better  and  permanent  position  at  home.     On  the 
whole,  we  have  been  fortunate  in  our  foreign  professors,  the 
majority  of  them  having  been  men  of  high  character;  and 
not  only  have  they  been  good  teachers,  but  many  of  them 
have  made  original  researches  while  in  Japan,  which  have 
won  them  distinction  in  their  respective  specialties.     At  the 
same  time,  we  have  sent  our  best  graduates  abroad  to  prose- 
cute  further  studies  under  eminent  professors  in   foreign 
universities.      In  earlier  days  more  students  were  sent  to 
America  and  England  than  to  any  other  country ;  but  for  the 
last  two  decades  or  more  most  of  the  students  from  the 
universities  have  gone  to  Germany,  that  country  offering  the 
greatest  facilities  for  the  prosecution  of  higher  postgraduate 
studies.    They  have  on  their  return  taken  positions  vacated 
by  foreign  professors  going  home  or  created  by  the  develop- 
ment of  education  and  learning. 

We  have  thus  traced  the  history  of  the  introduction  of 
Western  learning  from  its  beginning  down  to  the  present 
day.  We  Japanese  have  always  been  ready  to  take  from 
others  what  we  have  considered  to  be  good  for  us.  When 
we  came  in  contact  with  the  Chinese  civilization  and  Bud- 
dhism in  ancient  times,  we  at  once  introduced  them  and 
adopted  Chinese  literature  and  Chinese  and  Buddhist  phi- 
losophy as  our  own,  and  they  have  formed  the  main  subjects 
of  culture  of  our  scholars.     Our  administrative  system  and 

[724] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPEJsTNG 

laws  were  modeled  after  the  Chinese,  although  they  were 
afterward  greatly  modified  so  as  to  become  better  suited  to 
our  own  needs.     So  when  we  first  came  into  contact  with 
Europeans  in  the  sixteenth  century,  we  welcomed  them  and 
were  eager  to  receive  instruction  in  what  they  had  to  teach 
us.    Christianity,  likewise,  was  at  first  well  received  not  only 
by  the  people,  but  also  by  men  of  authority  and  influence, 
until  they  perceived  that  behind  it  there  was  a  great  danger 
to  the  country.     Even  then  they  were  desirous  of  keeping 
the  advantages  of  foreign  intercourse,  if  only  they  could  at 
the  same  time  keep  out  the  dangers  of  Christianity;  and  it 
was  only  when  they  found  that  this  was  impossible  that  they 
had  recourse  to  the  extreme  step  of  prohibiting  foreign  in- 
tercourse  almost  entirely.     But  while   stringent  measures 
continued  to  be  taken  against  Christianity,  the  desire  for 
new  knowledge  gradually  became  too  strong  to  be  resisted; 
the  spirit  that  animated  Maeno  and  his   fellows  in  their 
efforts  to  read  the  "Tafel  Anatomia"  in  their  earnest  search 
for  truth  is  the  spirit  that  has  always  animated  the  best  ele- 
ment of  intellectual  men  of  Japan.     This  spirit,  kept  up  in 
the  incessant  and  untiring  struggles  of  the  Dutch  scholars  to 
introduce  new  knowledge  among  their  countrymen  under  the 
shogunate,  has  blossomed  forth  under  the  wise  policy  of  the 
open  door  explicitly  enunciated  in  the  fifth  article  of  the 
memorable  oath  of  the  great  Emperor  Meiji,  and  under  the 
sunshine  of  encouragement  given  to  education  and  learning 
during  his  long  and  glorious  reign.     We  flatter  ourselves 
that  at  last  we  have  succeeded  in  assimilating  Western 
knowledge,  and  have  now  entered  the  comity  of  intellectual 
brotherhood;  so  that  while  we  shall  continue  to  learn  from 
the  West  what  it  has  got  to  teach  us,  we  shall  also  furnish  our 
quota,  small  perhaps  though  it  be,  to  the  common  stock  of 
the  knowledge  of  the  world.    * 

Dairoku  Kikuchi. 

[725] 


(p  : 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY^ 

I 

THE  FUNCTION  OF  A  UNIVERSITY 


THE  inauguration  of  a  new  institution  of  university  rank 
is  a  fitting  occasion  for  reviewing  the  field  which  such 
institutions  exist  in  order  to  cover;  for  going  back  for  a  mo- 
ment to  first  principles,  and  endeavouring  to  state,  in  the 
simplest  terms,  why  such  institutions  exist,  and  what  they 
may  effect  towards  the  moulding  of  a  new  generation,  and 
the  elevation  of  civic  and  national  life.  Different  univer- 
sities, according  to  the  circumstances  of  their  foundation  and 
history,  can  shew  different  reasons  for  their  existence  and 
for  being  such  as  they  are.  But  all  of  them,  whatever  the 
date  of  their  origin,  whatever  the  place  of  their  settlement, 
have  come  into  being  in  response  to  certain  demands  of  the 
place  and  the  time.  All  of  them  have  been  founded  with  a 
purpose  single  in  its  nature,  though  diverse  in  its  manifesta- 
tions. That  purpose  is  to  make  stated  and  secured  provision 
for  the  higher  needs  of  a  civilised  community.  The  needs, 
like  the  pursuits,  of  a  community  are  many.  But  its  civilisa- 
tion is  one.  It  is  the  object  of  a  university  to  gather  up  that 
civilisation,  to  analyse  and  study  its  separate  elements  in 
order  to  recombine  them  at  a  higher  power,  and  thus  to  give 
conscious  direction  to  the  human  mind  in  its  knowledge  of 
the  past,  its  understanding  of  the  present,  and  its  power  over 
the  future.  Its  office  is  to  store  up,  to  sort  out,  and  to  im- 
part knowledge;  and  by  doing  so  it  accumulates,  organises, 

1  A  discourse  prepared  for  the  inauguration  of  the  Rice  Institute,  by  Pro- 
fessor John  William  Mackail,  formerly  Professor  of  Poetry  in  Oxford  Uni- 
versity. 

[17263 


^.ij,lAK*<JusJL 


• 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

and  gives  forth  power.     Knowledge  is  power,  according  to 
the  old  saying;  it  is  latent  or  stored  power.     Conversely, 
power  is  knowledge  transformed  into  energy;  knowledge 
in  action.     Education,  the  process  which  goes  on  in  a  con- 
centrated form  and  at  high  pressure  in  a  university,  is  a 
mechanism  by  which  the  potential  energy  of  the  human  mind 
is  developed,  disciplined,  cleared  for  action.     Knowledge  is 
indeed  an  end  in  itself,  and  one  which  has  a  value  that  may 
properly  be  called  inestimable,  since  it  cannot  be  expressed 
in  the  terms  of  any  other  value.     Riches,  comfort,  health, 
fame,  influence,  beneficence,  are  things  of  which  knowledge 
pursued  for  its  own  sake  and  as  an  end  in  itself  takes  no 
heed.     But  while  knowledge  is  or  may  be  an  end,  education 
is  only  a  means :  a  means  to  knowledge,  for  such  as  desire 
knowledge  for  its  own  sake;  but  for  all  who  pass  through  it 
and  undergo  its  influence,  a  means  to  the  practice  and  con- 
duct of  life. 

Hence  in  any  community  the  idea  of  a  university,  the  sort 
of  education  which  a  university  will  be  planned  and  meant  to 
give,  will  depend  on  the  kind  of  life  which  that  community 
desires,  aspires  towards,  sets  before  itself  as  worth  attain- 
ing.    In  the  ancient  world  the  earliest  institutions  to  which 
the  name  can  in  any  sense  be  applied  were  religious  colleges 
—  schools  of  the  prophets,  as  they  are  called  in  the  Old 
Testament,  or  training-colleges  of  the  priests,  as  they  existed 
and  flourished  in  Babylonia  or  in  Egypt.     The  knowledge 
and  power  after  which  they  sought,  which  they  accumulated, 
recorded,  and  transmitted,  were  the  knowledge  of  and  the 
power  over  supernatural  forces.     For  these  supernatural 
forces  were  then,  according  to  the  common  belief,  what  gov- 
erned the  life  of  mankind  and  held  it  at  their  mercy;  to  un- 
derstand them  and  their  ways,  and  thus  to  gain  the  power 
of  foreseeing  their  action,  propitiating  their  favour,  giving 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

this  or  that  direction  to  their  working,  was  no  mere  matter 
of  abstract  study  or  idle  speculation:  it  was  most  severely 
and  immediately  practical;  it  lay  at  the  root  of  individual  and 
national  prosperity.  Without  education  in  this  all-important 
and  all-embracing  knowledge,  industry  and  commerce,  arts 
and  manufactures,  the  conduct  of  war  and  peace,  were  blind 
and  helpless:  in  a  word,  life  was  impossible. 

Out  of  that  world  rose,  after  many  ages,  what  we  know 
as  the  classical  civilisation.  This  was  the  work  of  Greece, 
carried  on  and  consolidated  by  Rome.  The  universities  of 
the  Graeco-Roman  world  belong  to  the  same  period  which 
saw,  for  the  first  time,  the  rise  of  a  trained  governing  class 
of  organisers  and  administrators.  Hence  in  these  univer- 
sities the  subjects  pre-eminently  studied  were  those  necessary 
for  such  a  class:  oratory,  law,  politics,  and  finance.  At  the 
same  time  the  creation  of  a  trained  governing  class  set  free 
those  who  did  not  belong  to  it,  whether  excluded  by  birth 
and  fortune  or  holding  aloof  by  choice  from  active  pursuit 
of  the  duties  attaching  to  the  work  of  government.  These, 
and  especially  the  latter  class,  those  who  deliberately 
abstained  from  active  public  life,  might  now  pursue  know- 
ledge for  its  own  sake;  and  other  universities  arose  which, 
in  response  to  this  new  demand,  devoted  themselves  to  the 
sciences:  on  the  one  hand,  to  the  pure  or  abstract  sciences, 
those  of  the  human  mind,  like  grammar  and  logic  and  meta- 
physics, and  those  of  the  physical  world,  like  botany  or 
chemistry  or  astronomy;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  to  the  ap- 
plied sciences,  such  as  engineering  or  mechanics  or  medicine, 
or  to  those  sciences  which  are  also  arts,  like  rhetoric  or 

music. 

When,  in  the  Middle  Ages,  men  began  to  gather  together 
the  wreckage  of  the  ancient  civilisation  and  to  reorganise 
life  on  a  fresh  basis,  their  notion  of  a  university  was  fun- 

[728] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

damentally  different.    For  the  mediaeval  notion  of  the  world 
was  that  it  was  something  limited,  precise,  and  ascertainable. 
It  was  something  of  which  complete  knowledge  was  possible; 
and  to  give  this  complete  rounded  knowledge  was  the  func- 
tion of  education.     The  forms  of  life  were  prescribed  by 
dogma;  and  the  substance  of  life,  on  all  its  sides  and  in  all 
its  manifestations,  was  what  could  be  comprehended  in  these 
forms.    Just  as  theology  was  fixed  and  bounded  by  the  au- 
thoritative doctrines  of  a  universal  or  Catholic  Church;  just 
as  political  and  social  life  was  fixed  and  bounded  by  the 
equally  authoritative  constitutions  of  the  universal  Roman 
Empire,  which  held  sway  over  men's  minds  long  after  it  had 
itself  ceased  to  exist  except  as  a  memory  of  the  past  or  a 
dream  of  the  future:  in  like  manner  and  to  a  like  degree 
were  the  form  and  the  content  of  all  knowledge  determined 
and  limited.     Treatises  were  written  de  omni  scibili,  'con- 
cerning everything  which  Is  capable  of  being  known.'    This 
was  an  ideal,  in  so  far  as  few,  if  any,  had  the  vigour  of  mind, 
the  industry,  acuteness,  and  patience,  that  were  required  for 
its  attainment.     But  it  was,  given  these  qualities  in  the  stu- 
dent, an  attainable  ideal.     A  university  professed  to  offer, 
its  students  came  prepared  to  receive,  universal  knowledge. 
The  mediaeval  curriculum— the  trivium  and  quadrivium  of 
educational  legislators— was  the  same  everywhere;  was  one, 
complete,  and  unalterable.    Study  might  be  pursued  further 
in  certain  branches  of  it  than  in  others;  but  that  was  only  In 
so  far  as  the  student  failed  to  complete  the  full  course  which 
would  leave  nothing  more  to  learn  or  to  know.    The  Summa 
Theologize,  the  sum  and  substance,  over  all  Its  range  and  Into 
all  Its  details,  of  divine  knowledge,  was  actually  put  together 
and  written  down;  the  Summa  Scientia,  the  sum  and  sub- 
stance of  secular  knowledge,  was  the  under  side,  as  it  were, 
of  that  other  fabric,  and  could  not  extend  beyond  Its  limits. 

r729] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 
That  is  to  say,  all  learning,  both  liberal  and  technical,  was 
the  province  of  a  university ;  the  scope  and  limits  of  all  learn- 
ing were  imposed  from  without  by  a  dogmatic  and  omnipo- 
tent theology,  and  whatever  knowledge  lay  beyond  these 
limits  was  either  proscribed  as  sinful,  or  its  existence  was 

denied.  . 

Hence  the  human  mind  was  not  only  bounded  but  crippled. 

Practice  did  not,  indeed,  follow  theory  to  its  rigid  conse- 
quences.    Schools  of  medicine,  of  civil  law,  even  of  natural 
science,  grew  up  here  and  there,  and  flourished  precariously 
under  the  jealous  eyes  of  the  Church.    Art  grew  up  of  itself, 
without  any  systematic  art-training.     Architecture  and  en- 
gineering were  in  the  hands  of  guilds,  where  knowledge  was 
transmitted,  in  theory  and  practice,  as  a  secret  treasure  from 
father  to  son  or  from  master  to  apprentice.     Painting  and 
the  sister  arts  wrought  out  a  tradition  of  their  own.    Poetry 
insisted  on  making  itself  heard,  but  was  discountenanced  as 
heathen  vanity  or  worse.    The  brilliant  culture  of  Provence, 
which  had  gone  out  of  Europe  to  the  Arabs  for  a  new  and 
larger  life,  was  crushed  by  armed  force,  and  perished  under 
the  sword  of  the  so-called  Crusaders  or  in  the  fires  of  the 
Inquisition.    Even  at  the  end  of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  when 
the  new  world  of  the  Renaissance  was  forming  itself,  Chau- 
cer, the  first  of  our  own  poets,  ended  by  a  formal  and  express 
disavowal  of  his  own  poetry,  revoking  and  retracting  it  (all 
except  legends  of  saints,  and  homilies,  and  books  of  morality 
and   devotion)    as  vanity  and  sin.     Physical   science  was 
equally  suspect,  and  was  subject,  down  to  the  time  of  Galileo 
and  later,  to  equally  jealous  control  and  equally  vindictive 

persecution. 

This  tyranny  of  theology  lasted  long  enough  to  affect  the 
modern  universities  likewise,  down  to  a  time  which  is  within 
living  memory.     It  was  not  broken  either  by  the  Reforma- 

n73o] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

tion  or  by  what  is  called  the  Revival  of  Learning.  For  the 
Reformation,  as  indeed  its  name  implies  if  we  consider  its 
real  meaning,  only  recast  that  tyranny  in  a  new  shape,  're- 
formed' it  and  imposed  it  afresh  on  the  human  mind;  and 
the  Revival  of  Learning  was  a  partial,  imperfect  and  agonis- 
ing struggle  to  regain  that  freedom  of  the  intelligence  on 
which  all  freedom  and  all  progress  ultimately  depend.  The 
pre-Revolutionary  foundations  in  the  American  Colonies, 
like  Harvard  (the  mother  and  head  of  American  univer- 
sities) and  Yale  (created  in  the  first  year  of  that  eighteenth 
century  which  was  the  liberating  age  of  human  thought), 
were  theological  colleges,  restricted  by  the  tenets  of  Puritan- 
ism, and  regarding  all  kinds  of  secular  learning  as  subsidiary 
elements  towards  theological  training.  Fifty  years  after  the 
foundation  of  Yale  the  first  decisive  step  towards  the  libera- 
tion of  knowledge  was  taken.  The  University  of  Pennsyl- 
vania, founded  on  lines  laid  down  by  Benjamin  Franklin  in 
1 75 1 ,  led  the  way  in  the  English-speaking  world  towards  the 
conception  of  a  seat  of  learning  in  which  learning  should  be 
unrestricted  by  dogma  and  have  no  limits  set  to  it  other  than 
the  limits  of  human  intelligence  and  capacity.  That  foun- 
dation, originated  by  men  who  were  to  be  the  creators  of  the 
American  Commonwealth,  was  an  achievement  in  the  field 
of  human  thought  which  marks  a  new  epoch,  just  as  the 
foundation  of  the  Republic  a  generation  later  marks  an 
epoch  in  the  political  and  social  life  of  mankind. 

The  step  then  gained  has  never  been  lost.  More  and 
more  surely,  as  time  went  on,  the  declaration  of  intellectual 
independence  made  by  those  pioneers  of  the  modern  world 
became  a  profession  of  faith  and  a  standard  of  conduct 
throughout  the  international  commonwealth  of  learning. 
Progress  was  slow:  it  was  not  until  1871  that  religious  tests 
were  removed  from  the  ancient  universities  of  Oxford  and 

1:730 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Cambridge;  here,  as  elsewhere,  the  creators  of  the  United 
States  led  the  way,  and  the  American  Republic  followed 
them  In  the  advance  towards  a  new  conception  and  a  new 
conduct  of  life.    It  became,  in  the  full  sense  of  the  words,  a 

New  World. 

That  world  existed  at  first,  and  for  long,  only  as  a  sketch 
or  outline :  it  drove  its  outposts  forward  through  virgin  for- 
est or  over  empty  prairie;  the  advancing  tide,  however  swift 
its  actual  advance,  required  generations  to  fill  up  the  chan- 
nels laid  for  it  and  widen  out  into  lakes  and  seas;  the  foun- 
dations were  pushed  on,  here  and  there,  at  random,  and  the 
earliest  superstructures  built  upon  them  were  often  slight 
and  mean.  It  was  not  until  after  the  Civil  War  that  the 
American  nation,  secure  in  its  unity  and  conscious  of  its 
greatness,  began  to  organise  its  own  higher  education,  and 
to  realise  the  full  culture  of  the  human  faculties  as  a  func- 
tion of  its  national  life.  Since  then  the  growth,  in  all  the 
States  of  the  Union,  of  institutions  of  liberal  and  technical 
learning  has  been  rapid  and  vast.  Yet  even  so,  it  has  hardly 
kept  pace  with  the  enormous  growth  of  population,  of  civic 
organisation,  and  of  material  resources.  The  new  institu- 
tion now  being  inaugurated  at  Houston  is  one  among  many 
such  new  foundations,  and  they  will  not  be  the  last.  The 
foundations  are  laid,  but  the  structure  towards  which  they 

are  laid  is  only  begun. 

But  while  the  number  of  American  universities  is  steadily 
growing,  the  ideal  of  an  American  university  is  undergoing 
no  less  striking  and  fruitful  an  expansion.  It  is  being  recog- 
nised that  a  university,  or  any  institution  of  university  rank, 
must  have  a  sphere  of  study  and  of  influence  as  wide  as  the 
whole  width  of  human  activity.  It  can  no  longer  confine  it- 
self to  some  special  study;  it  can  no  longer  be  merely  a  theo- 
logical seminary,  or  a  school  of  letters,  or  a  training-college 

[732] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

of  commerce,  or  a  collection  of  laboratories  and  workshops. 
Its  function  and  scope  must  be  universal.  It  must  proclaim 
the  unity  of  all  knowledge,  the  kinship  of  the  arts  and 
sciences,  the  mutual  interdependence  of  all  study  and  re- 
search towards  the  conquest  of  nature  and  the  complete 
civilisation  of  man.  To  this  task  there  are  no  bounds; 
beyond  the  widening  frontiers  of  knowledge  lie  ever  more 
and  more  unexplored  territories.  To  the  Republic  of  Learn- 
ing no  limits  are  set  by  the  ocean.  The  growth  of  knowledge 
is  the  growth  of  power;  the  organisation  and  communication 
of  knowledge  are  the  organisation  and  communication  of 
power;  and  that  power  Is  not  merely  a  power  over  what  is 
known,  but  a  power  and  a  will  and  an  endless  purpose  to 
know  more. 

It  is,  then,  matter  of  congratulation  that  the  founders  of 
this  institution  have  determined  that  Its  studies  shall  not  be 
confined  to  any  single  branch  of  knowledge,  but  that  the 
technical  and  professional  Instruction  which  It  will  offer  shall 
be  liberalised  by  organic  connection  with  art  and  letters.  In 
the  stately  and  ample  surroundings  which  have  been 
planned,  with  the  large  and  varied  equipment  which  Is  being 
provided,  the  Rice  Institute  gives  welcome  promise  of  rising 
to  the  height  of  the  opportunity  presented  to  it.  By  a  wise 
munificence.  It  will  offer  Its  education  free  to  Its  students;  it 
will  lay  no  tax  upon  the  acquisition  of  knowledge.  By  an 
equally  wise  breadth  of  view.  It  will  base  professional  and 
technical  training  on  a  liberal  general  education,  and  will 
thus  affirm  the  human  side  of  science,  commerce,  and  Indus- 
try, no  less  than  the  scientific,  commercial,  and  Industrial 
value  of  art  and  letters— of  "the  so-called  humanities,"  to 
quote  a  phrase  from  the  authoritative  statement  of  Its  Gov- 
erning Board,  which  derive  that  name  from  a  recognition  of 
the  fact  that  human  life,  at  Its  broadest  and  fullest.  Is  the 

1:733] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

subject-matter  alike  of  all  academic  study  and  of  all  civic 
endeavour.  It  is  proposed  to  assign  no  upper  limit  to  the 
educational  activity  of  the  Institute;  nor,  indeed,  is  it  right 
that  any  such  limit  should  be  fixed  except  that  fixed  by  Na- 
ture  herself-the  limit  of  human  activity  and  capacity.  But 
its  upward  growth  will  be  on  broad  foundations;  its  roots 
will  draw  life  from  a  large  and  rich  soil;  and  the  hope  may 
be  expressed  that  its  lateral  radiating  growth  will,  no  less 
than  its  upward  growth,  be  subject  to  no  imposed  limit.  For 
only  thus  can  its  full  natural  expansion  be  achieved  and  its 

organic  vitality  secured. 

Among  the  ''humanities^-among  those  studies  or  pur- 
suits in  which  the  noblest  instincts  of  human  nature  are  fos- 
tered  and  its  highest  aspirations  sustained-poetry  takes  a 
high,  if  not  the  highest,  place.    As  language  is  the  universal 
and  necessary  instrument  of  thought,  and  as  thought  is  the 
source  and  motive  power  of  all  action,  invention,  and  crea- 
tion, so  poetry  is  the  organ  of  language  and  thought  at  their 
highest  power,  in  their  most  intense  and  most  vitalising 
manifestation.     It  will  not,  therefore,  be  irrelevant  to  the 
inception  of  a  new  university  to  consider  more  closely,  first, 
what  poetry  is,  and  then-a  matter  of  no  less  moment  and 
of  a  practical  importance  which  will  appear  in  the  develop- 
ment of  the  discussion-what  is  the  task  or  function  of 
poetry  in  the  modern  world. 


1:734] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


II 

WHAT  IS  POETRY? 


IN  order  to  discuss  anything  rationally,  we  must  first  have 
a  clear  notion  of  what  the  thing  is  which  we  are  discuss- 
ing. Most  misunderstandings,  most  false  opinions,  arise 
from  mere  confusion;  and  the  heat  of  debate  increases  with 
the  vagueness  of  definition.  Even  in  the  sphere  of  the  phys- 
ical sciences,  where  perpetual  reference  back  to  facts  is 
implied  in  the  nature  of  the  case,  and  where  these  facts  are 
visible,  tangible,  and  ponderable,  such  confusion  is  not  un- 
known. But  the  confusion  is  more  apt  to  arise,  and  can 
spread  further  without  detection,  in  matters  where  theory 
cannot  be  so  readily,  and  has  not  to  be  so  constantly,  brought 
to  the  test  of  experience;  where  experience  itself  is  fluctu- 
ating, and  subject  to  the  distorting  influence  not  merely,  as  in 
physical  science,  of  tradition  and  habit,  but  also  of  unrea- 
soned instinct  and  variable  emotion.  Only  by  the  continuous 
effort  of  generations  have  the  physical  sciences  been  brought 
into  the  state  in  which  their  really  scientific  pursuit  is 
secured;  only  by  constantly  applying  them  to  practical 
problems  can  we  test  the  truth  of  generalisations  and  the 
relevance  of  theories,  and  be  sure  that  our  knowledge  is  real 
knowledge,  and  bears  relation— a  real  and  helpful  relation 
—to  the  actual  world  in  which  we  find  ourselves  and  with 
which  we  have  to  deal. 

In  what  are  called  the  humane  studies— those  of  art  and 
letters— the  same  twofold  necessity  exists:  the  necessity  of  a 
clear  definition  of  terms,  and  the  necessity  of  testing  the 
value  of  any  study  or  pursuit  by  laying  it  alongside  of  facts 

[735] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

and  seeing  what  relation  it  bears  to  the  claims  of  life.  Be- 
fore considering,  as  it  is  my  main  object  to  do,  the  function 
and  task  of  poetry  in  the  actual  modern  world,  whether  as  a 
subject  of  study,  an  art  in  practice,  or  (more  largely)  an 
element  in  civilisation,  it  will  be  proper,  and  indeed  neces- 
sary, to  clear  the  ground  by  saying  what  poetry  is. 

In  this  as  in  so  many  other  matters  the  instinctive  tendency 
in  many  minds  is  to  give  to  the  question,  'What  is^poetry?' 
the  answer,  'I  know,  so  long  as  you  do  not  ask  me.'    And  it 
is  no  doubt  true  that  most  people  have  some  vague  and  gen- 
eral conception  of  what  is  meant  by  the  word  'poetry'  float- 
ing in  their  minds.     But  their  conception  is  so  vague  and 
indeterminate  as  to  be  of  little  use.    That  poetry  is  a  kind  of 
language,   differing  in  its  nature  alike  from  the  ordinary 
language    of    our    daily    intercourse     and     from    the    lan- 
guage used  in  books  of  science  or  philosophy  or  history, 
of  treatises  on  politics  or  economics  or  religion,  of  memoirs 
or  essays  or  narratives,  would  be  generally  admitted;  but 
when  we  go  beyond  this  and  ask  what  is  its  specific  nature, 
many  would  be  unable  to  say  more  than  that  it  is  language 
arranged  in  lines  of  a  certain  arbitrary  length,  with  the 
words  so  artificially  ordered  as  to  produce  an  agreeable 
effect  upon  the  ear,  and  to  excite  a  certain  pleasure,  com- 
parable to  that  produced  by  music,  in  the  senses  of  the 
reader.     Beyond  that,  they  would  have  to  fall  back  on  in- 
stances: poetry,  they  would  say,  is,  in  ancient  literature, 
Homer   and  Virgil;  in  our  common   English  inheritance, 
Chaucer,  Spenser,  Milton;  in  more  modern  times,  Words- 
worth, Keats,  Tennyson,  Browning  on  one  side  of  the  At- 
lantic, Bryant,  Longfellow,  Whittier,  and  a  thousand  other 
writers  who  have  succeeded  to  them,  in  our  own  Republic. 

But  what  are  we  to  think  of  these  and  other  poets,  not 
merely  as  men,  not  merely  as  writers,  but  as  poets?    What 

1:736] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

is  that  thing  called  'poetry'  which  they  all  produced,  and 
what  are  we  to  think  of  It,  as  an  art,  as  a  way  of  occupying 
life  and  affecting  the  lives  of  others,  as  a  subject  to  be  studied 
or  a  craft  to  be  exercised?    When  we  come  to  this  point  we 
are  faced  at  once  with  the  confusion  which  arises  from  the 
absence  of  a  clear  notion  of  what  is  meant  by  poetry,  and 
from  the  consequent  absence  of  any  firm  common  ground 
when  we  try  to  state  and  to  appraise  its  function,  its  value, 
its  relation  to  the  task,  the  duty,  the  privilege  of  actual  men 
and  women  here  In  the  twentieth  century.     This  confusion 
affects  the   eulogists   and  the  detractors  of  poetry  alike. 
Many  wild  words  are  spoken  on  both  sides.    It  is  needless  to 
enlarge  on  this  notorious  fact.    On  the  one  side  are  the  dev- 
otees of  poetry,  who  regard  It  as  something  too  lofty  and 
sacred  for  definition,  as  something  that  stands  outside  of  and 
apart   from  common  people  and  their  pursuits.     On  the 
other,  In  much  larger  numbers,  are  those  who  think  of  it  as 
a  rather  trifling  amusement,  suitable  for  people  who  have 
nothing  better  to  do;  or  even  as  something  vicious  and  de- 
moralising, something  that  weakens  the  mind,  destroys  in- 
dustry and  accuracy,  cultivates  fancy  and  sentiment  at  the 
expense  of  Intelligence,  and  Is  a  stumbling-block  In  the  way 
of  the  pursuit  of  truth.     To  them  poetry  is  like  alcoholic 
liquor,  a  dangerous  servant  and  a  destructive  master.    'One 
of  the  Fathers,'  says  Bacon  In  his  'Essay  of  Truth,'  'called 
Poesy  v'lniim  damoninn  (devils'  wine),  because  it  filleth  the 
imagination  with  the  shadow  of  a  He.'     The  churches,  and 
religious  people  generally,  have  always,  if  they  did  not  go  as 
far  as  St.  Augustine,  at  all  events  regarded  poetry  with  sus- 
picion, and  not  been  comfortable  about  It.     And  here  they 
are,  for  once.  In  agreement  with  the  rough  common-sense  of 
business  men  who  care  for  religion  as  little  as  they  care 
for  poetry.     It  is  easy  to  laugh  at  the  mathematician  who 

D373 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

asked  of  Milton's  Taradise  Lost/  *What  does  it  prove?' 
But  it  is  not  so  easy  to  ignore  the  man  in  the  street  who  asks 
of  poetry,  not  'What  does  it  prove  ?'  but  'What  sense  is  there 
in  it?'  It  is  not  so  easy  to  confute,  before  a  careless  public, 
the  discontented  man  of  letters  who  turns  against  his  own 
art,  and  says  of  poetry,  in  the  words  of  a  contemporary  of 
Shakespeare,  that  it  is  a  thing  'whereof  there  is  no  use  in  a 
man's  whole  life  but  to  describe  discontented  thoughts  and 
youthful  desire.'  To  such  minds  poetry  is  either  a  childish 
folly  or  a  deliberate  misapplication  of  human  powers. 

Against  such  an  attitude  we  may  set  the  many  splendid 
tributes  in  which,  while  pretending  to  give  a  definition  of 
poetry,  the  poets  themselves  have  claimed  for  it  qualities  so 
marvellous,  a  value  so  great,  that  nothing  else  in  life  is  so 
precious.  Wordsworth  calls  poetry  'the  breath  and  finer 
spirit  of  all  knowledge.'  Shelley  calls  it  'the  record  of  the 
best  and  happiest  moments  of  the  happiest  and  best  minds.' 
Matthew  Arnold  says  that  it  is  not  only  'the  most  perfect 
speech  of  man,'  but  also  'that  in  which  he  comes  nearest  to 
the  truth.'  When  poets  commend  poetry,  their  testimony 
may  be  taken  by  the  outer  world  with  some  of  the  suspicion 
which  attaches  to  people  who  cry  up  their  own  wares.  Yet 
even  after  making  all  due  allowance  for  this,  the  two  atti- 
tudes of  mind  towards  poetry  are  clearly  inconsistent  with 
each  other.  We  may  admit  that  there  is  truth  in  both,  as 
there  is  truth  somewhere  at  the  basis  of  any  widely  and  sin- 
cerely held  opinion  on  matters  which  affect  life.  But  if  both 
are  true,  they  are  clearly  not  both  true  of  the  same  thing  and 
in  the  same  sense.  In  order  to  reconcile  them  in  any  wider 
and  more  comprehensive  truth,  we  must  try  to  avoid  on  the 
one  hand  the  glitter  of  rhetoric  and  sentiment,  the  'luminous 
mist'  (in  Coleridge's  fine  phrase)  which  imaginative  artists 
are  apt  to  wrap  round  their  own  art,  and  on  the  other  hand 

[738] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

the  impatience  of  the  practical  and  unimaginative  man  with 
anything  that  falls  beyond  the  scope  of  his  own  daily  expe- 
rience, that  uses  terms  with  which  he  is  not  familiar  and 
aims  at  objects  which  he  has  not  learned  to  appreciate.  And 
the  best  way  towards  arriving  at  common  ground  is  to  define 
our  terms  as  clearly  and  simply  as  possible. 

With  this  object,  let  us  now  proceed,  not  to  praise  or 
blame  poetry  (both  are  easy,  and  both  are  useless),  but  to 
explain  what  poetry  is.  I  will  first  state  the  technical  defini- 
tion of  poetry;  from  it,  and  keeping  it  in  view,  we  shall  be 
able  to  frame  a  substantial  or  vital  definition  of  it,  to  define 
it  not  merely  as  a  technical  term,  but  as  an  organic  process  or 
function.  Like  all  other  arts,  poetry  has  both  sides.  Like 
music,  painting,  or  architecture,  it  is  a  thing  subject  to  laws 
which  can  be  taught  and  learned,  historically  studied  and 
practically  applied.  Like  them.  It  is  also  not  merely  an  art, 
but  a  fine  art;  that  is  to  say,  it  Is  a  form  of  creative  human 
activity,  bearing  an  Intimate  relation  with  the  energies  of 
human  nature,  and  with  the  outlook  of  man  upon  the  mate- 
rial and  spiritual  world. 

Poetry  is,  formally  and  technically,  patterned  language. 
This  Is  Its  bare  and  Irreducible  definition.  Its  specific  qual- 
ity, its  differentia  from  other  kinds  of  artistry  exercised  on 
the  material  of  language.  Is  that  It  works  language  Into  pat- 
terns and  uses  it  not  only  for  its  common  and  universal  pur- 
pose of  expressing  meaning,— not  only  for  its  heightened  or 
artistic  purpose  of  expressing  meaning  In  such  a  way  as  to 
express  It  beautifully  and  thus  satisfy  the  artistic  sense,— 
but  also,  and  expressly,  so  as  to  bring  It  within  the  scope,  and 
make  It  subject  to  the  laws,  of  that  kind  of  decorative  design- 
ing which  we  call  pattern. 

Some  brief  further  explanation  may  here  be  added  to 
make  the  point  quite  clear.     When  we  are  defining  poetry 

1:7393 


I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

and  separating  it  formally  from  other  kinds  of  spoken  or 
written  language,  it  is  not  enough  to  say  that  it  is  language 
which  possesses  design  and  has  decorative  value.  All  beauti- 
ful, dignified,  and  elevated  language  has  that.  The  quality 
peculiar  to  poetry  is  something  different.  We  may  call  it, 
as  we  choose,  a  decorative  or  a  structural  quality:  for  what 
lies  at  the  root  of  all  true  art  is,  that  in  it  structure  and  deco- 
ration are  inseparable;  each  implies  the  other,  and  each 
exists,  in  any  artistic  sense,  only  by  virtue  of  its  essential 
relation  to  the  other.  Structure  in  the  abstract,  apart  from 
the  decorative  quality  through  which  it  manifests  itself  to 
the  senses  and  affects  the  imagination  and  the  emotions,  is 
matter  of  science,  not  of  art.  Decoration  in  the  abstract, 
apart  from  the  material  in  which  it  is  wrought  and  its  rela- 
tion to  the  structure  which  it  decorates,  is  meaningless.  The 
synthesis  of  the  two  constitutes  beauty;  their  vital  union  is 
the  aim  of  art.  Now  the  specific  quality  of  poetry  as  distin- 
guished from  other  kinds  of  literature  is  that  in  construction 
and  decoration  (its  construction  being  decorative,  and  its 
decoration  constructive)  it  follows  the  laws  of  pattern.  The 
essence  of  pattern,  as  is  well  known  to  all  pattern-designers, 
consists  in  its  having  what  they  term  a  repeat.  Pattern  is 
built  up  out  of,  or  grows  out  of,  a  repeated  unit;  and  the  art 
and  skill  of  the  pattern-designer  are  shewn  by  his  success  not 
merely  in  making  the  repeat  mechanical,  but  in  so  handling  it 
that  the  whole  field  over  which  it  extends  has  a  beauty  and 
a  unity  of  its  own,  rising  out  of  and  yet  distinct  from  the 
quality  of  the  repeated  unit.  A  row  of  equal  dots  is  a  pat- 
tern in  its  crudest  and  simplest  form;  these  dots  may  be 
grouped,  and  the  group  repeated;  these  repeated  groups  may 
be  themselves  regrouped  into  a  larger  design,  and  that  re- 
peated; and  so  on.  Not  only  so,  but  when  the  pattern  is  to 
be  executed  by  hand  and  not  by  a  machine,  it  may  be  treated 

1:740:] 


I 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

flexibly  and  varied  subtly;  it  may  depart  from  exact  repeti- 
tion without  ceasing  to  be  a  pattern  so  long  as  the  repeat,  or 
its  main  elements,  continue  to  be  felt.  All  really  excellent 
patterns,  patterns  which  are  works  of  art,  have  something 
of  this  flexibility.  It  may  extend  so  far  that  the  repeat  has 
to  be  sought  for,  is  visible  only  to  the  trained  eye,  and  affects 
other  eyes  with  a  pleasure  which  they  feel  but  cannot  analyse 
and  do  not  fully  understand. 

This  is  well  understood  as  regards  the  arts  of  painting 
and  music.  It  is  less  well  understood  as  regards  the  art  of 
poetry;  but  it  is  true  of  poetry  equally  with  the  other  arts  of 
pattern.  Poetry,  according  to  a  definition  which  in  all  prob- 
ability comes  to  us  from  no  less  an  authority  than  Milton,  is 
the  kind  of  language  which  'consists  of  rhythm  in  verses.' 
Prose  also  has  rhythm,  and  its  rhythm  may  be  of  great  and 
intricate  beauty,  but  it  is  not  'in  verses';  its  rhythm  is  not 
subject  to  the  law  of  repeat.  It  is  indeed  the  essence  of 
prose  that  it  has  not  a  repeat;  so  much  so  that  when  it  slips 
into  a  repeat  it  becomes  bad  prose,  and  affects  us  disagree- 
ably. This  is  what  its  name  means:  'prose' — the  Latin 
prosa  or^//o— means  language  which  moves  straight  for- 
ward without  a  repeat  in  its  rhythm.  Similarly,  'verse'  (also 
a  Latin  word)  simply  means  repeat. 

The  distinction  then  between  prose  and  verse  is  funda- 
mental. It  is  not  quite  the  same  as  the  distinction  between 
prose  and  poetry;  for  while  no  prose  is  poetry  (except  in  a 
very  loose  and  figurative  way  of  speaking,  unhappily  not 
seldom  used),  all  verse  is  not  poetry.  All  patterned  lan- 
guage is  verse,  but  to  make  it  poetry  the  pattern  must  be  skil- 
fully designed  and  governed  by  the  sense  of  beauty.  Or,  if 
we  like,  we  may  say  that  poetry  and  verse  are  the  same,  only 
then  we  must  include  bad  poetry  as  well  as  good.  It  is  sim- 
pler to  say  that  bad  poetry  is  not  poetry  at  all.   Milton  again 

[7413 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

here  supplies  us  with  an  illuminating  phrase.  In  the  'Para- 
dise Lost'  he  speaks  of  'prose  or  numerous  verse.'  Verse 
which  is  'numerous,'  in  which  the  repeated  unit  and  the  way 
in  which  the  repeat  is  managed  are  alike  beautiful,  is  poetry. 
The  scope  of  pattern,  in  language  as  in  all  the  other  ma- 
terials upon  which  human  craftsmanship  is  exercised,  is  very 
wide.  Its  development  varies  from  country  to  country, 
from  age  to  age,  from  one  school  of  artists  to  another;  and 
even  the  same  artist  may  use  it  very  variously  at  different 
times  and  for  different  purposes.  It  suffers  alternations  of 
growth  and  decay:  a  period  of  healthy  growth  is  succeeded 
by  one  of  stagnation  and  disintegration,  out  of  which  again 
in  time  fresh  growth  arises.  The  condition  of  decorative 
art  in  any  nation  is,  at  any  time,  an  index  to  the  state  of  its 
civilisation;  for  art  is  a  function  of,  or  an  element  in,  the 
whole  process  of  national  life.  Art  in  a  sense  exists  for  its 
own  sake ;  but  in  a  more  important  sense  it  exists  for  the  sake 
of  the  human  life  in  which  it  is  a  factor.  Just  as,  amid  great 
varieties  and  fluctuations  of  movement,  there  are  traceable 
certain  broad  lines  of  national  development,  so  it  is  with  the 
decorative  arts  of  a  nation,  and  with  poetry  among  these: 
there  are  certain  normal  or  dominant  types  of  pattern;  on 
these  each  artist  varies  according  to  his  own  imagination 
and  skill ;  and  from  the  normal  and  central  type  extend  out- 
wards in  all  directions  other  types,  continually  in  process  of 
invention,  cultivation,  and  change.  Some  of  them  are  ex- 
periments which  come  to  nothing;  others  strike  root  and 
become  important  enough  to  affect  or  alter  the  normal  type 
of  pattern.  Thus  the  art  of  poetry  is  always  renewing  itself 
through  fresh  invention  under  the  stimulus  of  individual 
genius,  and  always  rebalancing  itself  through  a  slow  but  final 
current  of  judgment  as  to  the  success  or  failure  of  the  new 
type.     Instances  may  be  found  anywhere  by  even  a  cursory 

1:7423 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

glance  over  contemporary  poetry.  But  we  shall  be  on 
clearer  ground  if  we  put  aside  living  authors  and  look  to  the 
work  of  an  earlier  generation,  which  has  already  taken  its 
place  and  can  be  looked  at  as  a  whole  and  from  a  distance. 
Among  American  poets  of  the  last  century  we  shall  find  the 
normal  patterns  of  language,  for  instance,  in  the  work  of 
Longfellow,  perhaps  still  the  greatest,  as  he  is  the  sweetest- 
voiced  and  sanest-minded,  of  them  all.  Notable  divergences 
from  normal  pattern  may  be  seen  on  the  one  hand  in  the 
lyrics  of  Poe,  with  whom  curiousness  of  pattern  was  almost 
an  obsession;  on  the  other  hand,  in  the  singular  and  hitherto 
unique  work  of  Walt  Whitman,  in  which  the  reaction  against 
formalism  of  pattern  went  so  far  that  it  has  been  questioned 
whether  any  pattern,  in  the  strict  sense,  is  left  at  all:  or  in 
other  words,  whether  the  contents  of  'Leaves  of  Grass'  are, 
or  are  not,  poetry. 

Poetry,  then,  according  to  its  formal  and  technical  defini- 
tion, is  patterned  language,  the  material  of  words  wrought 
by  art  into  patterns;  and  it  gives  the  pleasure,  partly  sen- 
suous and  partly  intellectual,  which  all  pattern  gives  through, 
and  in  proportion  to,  its  decorative  fitness  and  beauty.  If 
we  regard  it  not  on  its  technical  side,  but  in  its  substance  and 
meaning,  it  has  a  corresponding  definition:  it  is  the  art  or 
process  which  makes  patterns  out  of  the  subject-matter  of 
language.    That  subject-matter  is  life. 

As  soon  as  we  have  grasped  this  truth  firmly  we  shall  un- 
derstand the  things  which  the  poets  have  said  about  poetry. 
Life,  as  it  presents  itself  to  us  as  we  pass  through  it,  has  no 
pattern,  or  at  least  none  (except  to  some  people  of  very 
simple  and  fervid  religious  belief)  that  is  certain  and  intel- 
ligible. It  is  multiplex  and  bewildering;  its  laws  are  con- 
fused; it  does  not  satisfy  our  hopes  or  our  aspirations: 
sometimes  it  seems  purposeless,  often  it  seems,  as  Hamlet 

1:7433 


;~2£a«!af5'; 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

says,  'out  of  joint.'  It  makes  no  pattern;  still  less  does  it 
make  a  pattern  of  beauty.  The  high  office,  the  unique  func- 
tion, of  poetry  is  to  compose  this  disorder  into  a  pattern;  to 
bring  out,  make  visible,  lift  up  as  a  light  in  darkness,  the 
particular  portion  or  aspect  of  life  which  it  touches;  and  in 
the  hands  of  the  greatest  poets,  to  do  this  with  life  as  a 
whole.  In  the  beautiful  words  of  Shelley,  which  I  may  now 
quote  with  the  hope  that  their  significance  can  be  understood, 
poetry  'makes  familiar  things  be  as  if  they  were  not  fa- 
miliar.' It  shews  us  the  confused,  depressing  texture  of 
experience  in  a  new  and  strange  light  under  which  we  can 
realise  it  as  part  of  the  divine  order.  It  lets  us  see  life  in  its 
inherent  beauty  and  value,  and  gives  us  strength  to  live. 

Thus  poetry  is,  in  no  mere  rhetorical  or  sentimental  sense, 
the  highest  human  achievement.  It  is  the  culminating  point 
of  that  wide  combined  effort  or  instinct  which  is  at  the  base 
of  all  education,  of  all  study,  of  all  work;  and  this  is,  to 
realise  the  potentialities  of  life,  to  master  the  world  and 
enter  into  our  inheritance.  To  do  this  is,  in  the  full  sense,  to 
live. 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


[744] 


III 
THE  MODERN  WORLD 

THE  present  age  is  in  a  state  of  rapid  flux.  Not  in  one 
country  only,  nor  among  one  social  class  only,  but 
everywhere  from  top  to  bottom  and  from  end  to  end,  change 
is  proceeding  with  unexampled  speed.  All  movement,  not 
only  physical  but  intellectual  and  moral,  has  been  vastly  ac- 
celerated. The  old  barriers  are  everywhere  breaking  down, 
the  old  ideas  and  organisations  disappearing,  or  in  course  of 
being  fundamentally  transformed.  An  enormous  stock  of 
hitherto  latent  energy  has  been  called  violently  into  action, 
and  to  this  process  it  is  not  yet  possible  to  assign  any  limit. 
We  live,  and  our  children  will  live  after  us,  among  the 
wreckage  of  an  old  order,  and  the  girders  and  scaffolding 
of  a  new  one  which  is  arising,  amid  dust,  confusion,  and 
seeming  absence  of  any  mastering  control  or  intelligible  de- 
sign, to  replace  the  old. 

The  nineteenth  century,  which  now  lies  so  far  behind  us 
that  we  can  more  or  less  look  back  upon  it  as  on  a  past  age 
and  receive  from  it  a  general  total  impression,  was  an  age 
of  ideas,  and  of  belief  in  ideas.  Among  its  dominant  ideas 
were  those  of  nationality  and  of  enfranchisement  in  politics, 
of  organic  continuity  in  history,  of  conquest  of  the  physical 
world  in  science.  Such  ideas,  grasped,  believed  in,  and  prac- 
tically applied,  impressed  upon  the  century  a  character  of  its 
own,  and  one  wholly  different  from  that  of  any  previous  age. 
They  were  all  summed  up  and  included,  together  with  many 
others  of  hardly  less  significance,  in  the  governing  idea  of 
progress.    Progress  was  necessarily  accompanied  by  change ; 

[745] 


'.' 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

but  change  was  sought  not  for  its  own  sake,  but  for  the  sake 
of  giving  effect  to  the  ideas  which  lay  behind  it  as  a  motive 
force.  Change  was  realised  as  development:  this  was  the 
achievement  of  science.  Development  was  assumed  to  be 
progress,  and  was  hailed  as  such:  this  was  the  essence  of 
liberalism.  It  was  an  age  of  unbounded  hope  for  the  future 
and  of  active  belief  in  the  work  of  the  present. 

A  generation  ago,  a  change  began  to  pass  over  the  human 
spirit.     The  reflex  action  of  the  new  ideas  cut  them  away 
from  the  base  out  of  which  they  had  sprung.    For  ideas,  like 
other  things,  are  subject  to  the  law  of  development,  and 
pass  through  an  orbit  of  their  own.    The  revolution  of  the 
nineteenth  century  has,  like  other  revolutions,  'devoured  its 
own  children.'    Its  ideas  have  partly  dwindled,  partly  failed, 
partly  so  altered  and  expanded  that  they  can  no  longer  be 
recognised  for  what  they  were.     The  law  of  development 
has,  in  the  phrase  of  engineers,  'taken  charge.'    In  discover- 
ing it,  we  have  discovered  our  master.    It  is  a  law  not  of  our 
making,  and  but  little  under  our  control.     Before  its  march 
all  the  old  traditions,  and  all  the  moral  or  customary  sanc- 
tions which  attached  themselves  to  these,  crumble  away  or 
go  off  in  smoke.    It  is  a  power  not  only  invincible,  but  incal- 
culable.   We  may  still  talk  of  progress ;  but  many  of  us  have 
in  our  hearts  ceased  to  believe  in  it;  or  if  we  do  believe  in  it, 
it  is  a  dift'erent  thing  in  which  we  believe  from  that  progress 
which  quickened  the  impulses  and  inspired  the  actions  of  our 
predecessors.      Progress   meant   to    them   betterment.      It 
meant  the  coming  of  mankind,  with  certainty  and  with  in- 
creasing rapidity,  into  their  inheritance;  and  that  inheritance 
was  assumed,  or  believed,  or  as  men  thought,  proved,  to  be 
a  goodly  inheritance,  to  include  in  it  all  good.    The  inherit- 
ance which  we  now  see  lying  before  us  seems  rather  a  burden 
than  an  enfranchisement.     It  is  an  'importunate  and  heavy 

1:746:] 


4 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

load.'  Long  ago,  the  greatest  of  the  Hebrew  prophets  cried 
out  sorrowfully  to  the  Power  which  ruled  above.  Thou  hast 
multiplied  the  people,  and  hast  not  increased  the  joy.'  Some 
such  feeling  now  weighs  upon  the  present  age.  The  Power 
goes  on  its  own  inflexible,  sinister  way,  and  forces  us  on 
before  it.  We  find  it  more  and  more  difficult  to  believe  that 
it  works  for  good;  for  we  do  not  see  it  doing  so.  There  is 
a  wide-spread  belief  that  progress,  in  the  old  sense  of  the 
word,  does  not  exist. 

The  denial  of  progress,  as  a  ruling  law  of  life,  has  also 
been  a  doctrine  held  in  past  ages.  But  they  differed  from 
the  present  age  in  this,  that  they  carried  out  their  doctrine  in 
practice.  They  were  conservative.  They  tried,  with  all  the 
power  they  had,  to  ^x  things  as  they  were,  lest  a  worse  thing 
should  come  upon  them.  This  was  the  whole  effort  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  It  was  the  effort  of  the  conservative  or  reac- 
tionary element  in  society  which  strove,  persistently  but  in 
the  end  helplessly,  against  the  intellectual  revolution  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  the  industrial  revolution  which  succeeded 
it,  and  the  political,  scientific,  and  social  revolutions  which 
have  carried  on  the  process  down  to  our  own  day.  But  con- 
servatism in  the  old  sense  has  also  ceased  to  exist  as  a  real 
and  effective  doctrine.  Change  has  been  realised  as  an  in- 
vincible force;  the  desire  for  change  has  become  a  fixed 
instinct;  and  to  this,  rather  than  to  any  reasoned  belief  or 
any  assured  hope,  is  due  the  intense  restlessness  of  the  mod- 
ern w^orld. 

The  solvent  effect  of  many  forces  has  co-operated  to 
bring  this  state  of  things  about.  Intercommunication  in 
space  has  reached  such  a  pitch  of  ease  and  regularity  that 
the  communities  of  mankind  are  no  longer  cut  off  from  one 
another;  what  affects  one,  almost  at  once  begins  to  affect  all, 
and  an  impulse  towards  change  arising  anywhere  from  fresh 

1:747:1 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Ideas  or  altered  circumstances  is  propagated,  as  it  were  by 
waves  travelling  in  all  directions  through  an  elastic  medium, 
over  the  whole  world.  An  immensely  increased  knowledge 
of  the  past  has  come  to  men  from  the  compilation  of  records 
and  the  organisation  of  research;  and  the  historical  method 
(perhaps  the  greatest  single  invention  of  modern  times)  has 
interconnected  all  that  knowledge  so  as  to  make  it  breed  and 
multiply  through  mutual  fertilisation.  Knowledge  and  un- 
derstanding of  so  many  past  changes  has  brought  about  an 
attitude  of  mind  in  which  nothing  is  seen  to  be  unchangeable, 
in  which  no  change  seems  impossible,  in  which  life  itself  ap- 
pears to  consist  of  change.  The  development  of  applied 
science  and  the  triumph  of  machinery  have  opened  up  a 
boundless  prospect  of  the  degree  to  which  this  inherent  law 
of  change  may  be  utilised,  may  be  turned  by  mankind  to 
planned  ends  and  foreseen  purposes.  Together  with  all 
these  solvent  influences  is  to  be  reckoned  another,  negative 
indeed,  yet  in  its  effect  perhaps  the  most  potent  of  all.  This 
is  the  disappearance  of  religion,  in  the  older  and  original 
sense  of  the  word.  For  religion  as  it  was  understood  in 
earlier  ages  was  a  system  of  enactments  and  prohibitions 
based  on  undefined  fear  and  sanctioned  by  terrible  penalties; 
once  established,  it  was  the  strongest  of  all  conservative 
forces,  because  exercising  the  highest  and  widest  controlling 
power  over  the  thought  as  well  as  the  actions  of  men. 

The  joint  result  of  all  these  solvent  influences  in  their 
accumulated  force  is  a  movement  of  change  so  rapid  and  so 
wide-spread  that  all  the  old  framework  of  life  tends  to  dis- 
appear, and  no  pattern  of  life  is  left.  The  course  of  change 
points  every^vhere,  which  is  the  same  thing  as  pointing  no- 
where.  The  compasses  by  which  life  was  directed  have  been 
demagnetised.  It  is  an  age  of  perplexity,  an  age  of  disillu- 
sionment.    This  is  not  like  the  old  clearing  up  of  thought 

1:7483 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

(the  Aufkldrung  of  philosophic  historians)  which  sought  to 
dispel  illusions  that  had  gathered  round  and  blurred  a  frame- 
work of  certainty.  It  is  disillusionment  in  another  sense.  Its 
light  is  a  blind  and  formless  glare  in  which  all  objects  disap- 
pear. It  issues  in  the  feeling  that  what  is  to  be  discovered  is 
infinite  and  cannot  be  discovered  fully;  that  what  is  to  be 
done  is  infinite  and  cannot  be  done  effectively. 

Against  this  relapse  into  chaos  what  is  needed  is  a  steady- 
ing influence;  and  this  influence,  while  it  may  arise  from 
different  sources  and  act  along  many  channels,  is  to  be  sought 
and  found  nowhere  with  more  clearness  and  certainty  than 
in  poetry.  For  it  is  the  function  of  poetry,  as  we  have  seen, 
to  make  patterns  out  of  life;  to  discover  by  its  imaginative 
vision,  to  make  manifest  by  its  creative  and  constructive 
power,  the  order  and  beauty,  the  truth  and  law,  that  underlie 
the  flux  of  things.  To  the  paralysing  sense  of  disillusionment 
it  opposes  a  revelation  of  essential  truth;  beneath  the  chaotic 
surface  of  life  it  apprehends  ordered  beauty.  It  re-creates 
the  fabric  of  life;  it  renews  the  meaning  and  the  motive  of 
living. 

It  would  be  needless,  in  speaking  to  any  educated  au- 
dience, to  multiply  instances  in  which  this  function  has  ac- 
tually been  performed  by  great  poets,  or  to  point  out  how 
their  quickening  and  reconstituting  influence  is  not  confined 
to  their  own  fellow-countrymen  in  their  own  age,  but  retains 
or  may  even  increase  its  effect  in  distant  ages  and  among 
other  civilisations.  All  the  great  poets  of  the  past  derive 
their  greatness  for  us  in  the  present  from  the  fact  that  their 
effective  force  on  life  still  survives.  The  religious  poetry  of 
the  ancient  Hebrew  people,  translated  into  other  tongues 
and  reinterpreted  by  new  minds,  remains  a  dominant  power 
not  merely  among  the  wide-spread  colonies  of  their  own 
descendants,  but  among  all  the  nations  who  have  received 

[7493 


I 


X 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

It  as  part  of  the  Inheritance  of  Christianity.     Homer,  the 
poet  of  poets  who  wrote  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey,  was  the 
teacher  and  in  some  sense  the  creator  (so  the  Greeks  them- 
selves claimed)  of  ancient  Greece;  but  after  ancient  Greece 
had  perished,  and  ever  since,  down  to  the  present  day,  he 
has  remained  a  powerful  influence  over  the  ideals,  and  thus 
over  the  conduct  and  action,  of  successive  generations  of 
mankind.     Virgil,  the  prophet  and  Interpreter  through  his 
poems  of  the  Latin  race  and  the  Roman  Empire,  shares  with 
the  Roman  statesmen,  jurists,  and  administrators  the  glory 
of  having  formed  and  transmitted  to  posterity  the  plan  of 
an  ordered  civilisation  reigning  throughout  an  organised 
empire  and  imposing  itself  on  the  outer  surrounding  world. 
The  great  poets  of  England  and  the  English-speaking  na- 
tions have,  on  one  side  or  another,  achieved  a  task  hardly 
less.     Chaucer  interpreted  and  summed  up  the  expansion 
given  to  life  by  the  earlier  Renaissance;  he  initiated  modern 
England.    Spenser  gave  voice  to  the  Ideals  and  Inspired  the 
action  of  the  Elizabethan  age.     Milton  engraved  upon  the 
minds   of  his  countrymen    (and  among  those  countrymen 
were  the  Fathers  of  the  American  Republic)  the  doctrine, 
the  belief,  the  law  of  conduct,  which  were  the  strength  of 
Puritanism  and  the  basis  of  Republicanism.    In  more  recent 
times  the  poetry  of  Byron  and  Shelley  carried  on  the  work 
and  enforced  the  Ideas  which,  through  the  French  Revolu- 
tion and  the  movement  of  which  the  French  Revolution  w^as 
the  symbol  and  centre,  transformed  the  civilisation  and  life 
of  Europe.    The  Brownings  became,  a  generation  later,  the 
Interpreters  of  that  Liberalism  which,  in  the  social,  political, 
and  industrial  world,  was  the  chief  motive  force  of  the  nine- 
teenth century.    In  the  middle  years  of  that  same  century  the 
group  of  American  poets  among  whom  Longfellow,  Whlt- 
tler,  and  Lowell  are  the  most  distinguished  names,  exercised 

1:750] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

the  most  powerful  Influence  over  national  life,  and  share 
with  Lincoln  and  Grant,  with  soldiers  and  statesmen  and 
men  of  action,  the  glory  of  creating  and  sustaining  that  faith 
and  that  resolution  among  the  people  which  saved  the  Union 
and  established  a  free  and  indissoluble  Commonwealth. 

Poets  have  not  ceased;  and  there  may  be  poets  now  alive 
whose  work  in  the  judgment  of  future  generations  will  be 
comparable  In  the  history  of  the  world  to  that  of  their  great 
predecessors.  Whether  this  be  so  or  not,  the  task  and  func- 
tion of  poetry  remain  the  same;  and  thus  the  study  of  poetry 
remains  an  essential  part  of  human  culture,  and  its  practice 
an  essential  element  in  human  activity. 

Among  the  great  poets,  as  among  all  great  artists,  there 
is  very  wide  differentiation  of  function.     While  they  all,  in 
virtue  of  being  poets,  create  or  embody  patterns  of  life, 
these  patterns  are  never  twice  the  same;  they  are  the  crea- 
tion of  individual  genius  working  on  material  which,  being 
coextensive  with  life   itself.   Is   of  Infinite   complexity   and 
variety.     In  the  phrase  of  St.  Paul,  'there  are  divers  inter- 
pretations, but  one  spirit.'    The  interpretation  is  never  twice 
the  same;  the  material  to  be  interpreted  never  presents  itself 
to  two  artists  alike.    Hence  the  task  of  poetry  Is  never  com- 
pleted; it  is  a  concurrent  and  endless  Integration  of  the 
meaning  of  life ;  and  while  the  poetry  of  the  past  Is  our  price- 
less inheritance,  the  poetry  of  the  present  Is  our  ceaseless 
need.     Some  poets  have  been,  primarily  and  distinctively, 
prophets  of  the  future;  with  others,  their  work  has  been  to 
relllumine  the  past  and  make  It  alive  to  us,  to  make  It  an 
effective  part  of  our  own  conscious  life.    Others,  again,  have 
brought  form  and  beauty  Into  the  present,  and  shewn  us  the 
pattern  in  the  things  that  lie  nearest  to  us.    Thus  Tennyson 
owed  his  vast  Influence  and  popularity  to  the  fact  that  he  was 
always  just  abreast  of  his  time;  he  was  the  voice,  during  the 

1:750 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

sixty  years  of  his  poetical  production,  of  the  actual  spirit  of 
his  country,  the  thought  and  emotion  and  work  of  his  age. 
Other  poets  as  great  have  failed  to  obtain  the  same  universal 
acceptance,  because  the  patterns  of  life  they  created  were  of 
a  life  somewhat  further  apart  from  common  experience : 
such  poets  may  have  to  wait  for  their  fame  until  after  death, 
or  may  exercise  their  influence  not  so  much  on  the  world  of 
their  own  time  directly  as  on  a  smaller  number  of  minds 
whom  they  inspire  and  fertilise,  and  through  whom  they 
become  powerful  germinal  influences  on  a  later  generation. 
To  elucidate  and  appreciate  this  complex  stream  of  creation 
and  its  effect  upon  mankind  is  part  of  the  study  of  poetry: 
but  more  than  that,  it  is  part  of  the  study  of  civilisation,  part 
of  the  equipment  required  for  understanding  the  world  and 
being  able  to  deal  with  it,  to  master  its  springs  and  to  sway 
its  course. 

The  state  of  flux  which  I  began  by  noting  as  characteristic 
of  this  early  twentieth  century  is  perhaps  nowhere  so  marked 
and  so  rapid  as  in  the  United  States.  From  its  beginnings, 
and  now  as  much  as  ever,  the  American  Republic  has  been 
the  laboratory  and  testing-ground  of  the  whole  world.  The 
founders  of  the  Republic  set  themselves  to  make  that  con- 
tinent to  which  the  name  of  the  New  World  had  been  ap- 
plied since  its  discovery  and  colonisation,  a  new  world  in  the 
full  sense;  and  this  has  remained  more  or  less,  in  principle 
at  least,  the  guiding  doctrine  of  their  successors.  But  in  the 
framing  of  a  pattern  for  this  new  world,  poetry  and  the 
poets  (except,  as  I  mentioned,  in  the  course  of  the  great 
struggle  which  established  the  freedom  and  unity  of  the 
nation)  have  borne  little  part.  The  creators  of  the  United 
States  were  neither  poets  nor  much  influenced  in  their 
thought  and  action  by  poetry.  Washington,  Franklin,  Ham- 
ilton, all  had  a  certain  amount  of  imaginative  or  creative 

1:752] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

genius;  but  they  had  minds  of  the  prosaic,  not  the  poetical 
order.  The  poetry  of  Puritanism  had,  a  century  before 
their  time,  put  forth  its  first  and  last  flower  in  Milton ;  unless 
we  say  that,  half  a  century  later  still,  the  thin  and  austere 
but  exquisite  poetry  of  Emerson  was  a  last  autumnal  flower- 
age  from  the  same  stem.  There  are  many  modern  American 
poets,  but  no  one  among  them  has  been  recognised  by  the 
world  as  belonging  to  the  first  rank,  or  appears  to  be  a 
moulding  and  formative  influence  over  the  national  life.  Of 
the  two  names  whom  many  would  hold  to  be  the  foremost 
among  American  poets,  Poe  was  a  stray  exotic,  and  Whit- 
man a  splendid  anomaly.  Perhaps  the  national  life  is  more 
confused,  certainly  the  national  history  is  poorer,  through 
the  comparative  absence  of  poetry— of  a  national  and  great 
poetry— as  one  of  its  constructive  and  enriching  elements. 
And  in  the  solution  of  the  vast  problems  which  to-day  con- 
front the  Republic,  those  patterns  of  life  given  by  the  poets, 
whether  native  or  foreign,  cannot  be  neglected  without 
grave  loss.  It  is  necessary  to  maintain,  it  is  at  once  a  privi- 
lege and  a  duty  to  urge,  the  study  of  poetry  as  a  part  of  the 
public  provision  for  the  education  of  the  people. 

This  new  Institute,  like  most  modern  foundations  for  pro- 
moting higher  education,  devotes  itself  largely  or  mainly  to 
technology  and  science.  This  is  quite  right;  for  these  are 
studies  of  immediate  utility  and  pressing  importance.  But 
did  it  confine  itself  to  these,  it  would  contract  its  own  scope 
and  diminish  its  own  value.  Technical  processes  are  means 
and  not  ends  in  life;  physical  science  itself  is  based  ultimately 
on  ideas:  letters  and  art  give  it  not  merely  its  interpretation, 
but  its  impulse  and  inner  meaning.  Thus  the  study  of  the 
humanities  is  at  once  the  basis  and  the  crown  of  the  study  of 
the  sciences;  or  rather,  we  may  say,  supplies  these  sciences 
with  a  motive  and  an  informing  spirit. 

1:7533 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

The  humanities,  the  studies  which  deal  directly  with  the 
vital  and  human  elements  in  life,  with  thought,  emotion,  and 
imagination,  culminate  in  poetry;  and  we  may  now  proceed 
to  consider  somewhat  more  closely  and  more  in  detail  the 
function  and  task  of  poetry  in  relation  to  actual  life  at  the 
present  day.  The  modern  world,  as  I  said,  is  in  a  state  of 
rapid  flux  and  transformation.  Among  a  thousand  elements 
or  forces  which  go  to  make  its  movement,  one  or  another 
may  be  singled  out  as  of  special  prominence.  But  there 
would  be  general  agreement  with  any  one  who  called  the 
present  age  eminently  an  age  of  the  extension  and  dominance 
of  science;  or  who  called  it,  no  less  eminently,  an  age  of  busi- 
ness conducted  on  a  vast  scale,  at  high  tension,  with  exceed- 
ing complexity;  or  who,  once  more,  called  it  the  age  of  ex- 
panding and  triumphant  democracy.  Let  us  proceed  to 
regard  the  function  of  poetry  in  relation  to  these  three  great 
distinguishing  features  of  the  actual  world. 


[754] 


L\ 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


IV 

POETRY  AND  SCIENCE 

SCIENCE,  as  the  term  is  now  understood  and  as  the 
study  denoted  by  the  word  is  now  pursued,  is  a  birth  of 
the  modern  world.     Its  growth  was  coincident  with  the 
earlier  development  of  the  United  States,  w^here  its  practical 
application  has  expanded  to  keep  pace  with  the  ever  increas- 
ing demands  of  a  national  growth  more  swift  and  complex 
than  has  elsewhere  been  known.     Within  the  last  two  or 
three  generations  it  has  also  taken  its  place  as  an  important, 
and  even  an  indispensable,  part  of  higher  education.    Tech- 
nical institutes  have  sprung  up  on  all  sides  in  response  to 
public  demand.    The  study  of  science  has  been  taken  up  by 
the  older  universities,  and  is  the  main  pursuit  in  most  univer- 
sities of  modern  foundation.    Even  higher  claims  are  made 
for  it.    Its  exponents  speak  of  it  not  only  as  having  won  an 
assured  place  in  the  front  rank  of  human  studies,  but  as  oc- 
cupying in  that  rank  a  predominant,  if  not,  as  some  of  them 
venture  to  assert,  a  practically  exclusive  place.    A  note  of 
triumph  is  sounded  in  these  utterances.    The  Royal  Society 
of  England  has  this  year   [1913]   been  celebrating,  with 
splendid  ceremonies  and  before  audiences  containing  many 
of  the  foremost  names  of  the  present  age,  the  two  hundred 
and  fiftieth  anniversary  of  its  foundation.     In  connection 
with  these  meetings,  the  importance  and  dignity  of  science 
were  asserted  in  these  eloquent  words  : 

'Our  children  are  born  into  a  time  in  which  science  has  al- 
ready ceased  to  be  a  plaything;  it  has  become,  or  is  fast 

1:7553 


Q 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

becoming,  the  dominant  factor  in  human  affairs;  it  will  de- 
termine who  shall  hold  the  supremacy  among  nations/ 

So  far,  the  note  is  one  of  exultation:  yet  the  satisfaction 
of  those  who  urge  the  claims  of  science  is  not  complete. 
They  complain  that  science  is  not  yet  studied  as  it  should 
be;  that  other  studies,  whose  value  is  inferior  and  whose 
day  is  over,  are  allowed  to  encroach  on  a  field  and  share  an 
authority  which  ought  to  belong  to  science  alone.  'It  has  as 
yet,'  the  writer  from  whom  I  have  just  quoted  goes  on,  'no 
adequate  place  in  the  intellectual  equipment  or  in  the  educa- 
tion of  those  who  aspire  to  be  the  governing  classes  of  the 
country.' 

This  sentence  is  significant  in  more  than  one  way. 
Whether  or  not  there  are  to  be  governing  classes  in  the 
country— be  that  country  England,  of  which  the  words  were 
spoken,  or  America,  to  which  they  likewise  apply— is  exactly 
the  problem  which  lies  for  solution  before  modern  democ- 
racy. But  however  this  may  be,  whether  the  nations  will 
hand  over  their  government  to  a  trained  class,  or  whether, 
according  to  the  ideal  impressed  upon  the  United  States  by 
the  founders  of  the  Republic,  the  governing  power  shall 
comprise  all  classes  and  be  the  whole  organised  body  of  a 
self-governing  nation,  the  claim  is  in  either  case  made  that 
science  in  its  modern  sense  is  to  be  the  staple  of  their  intel- 
lectual equipment. 

Part  of  this  claim  has  been  already  conceded.  Immense 
endowments  are  lavished  on  scientific  research  and  study. 
The  axis  of  education  has  been  sensibly  shifted.  Science  has 
taken  its  place  as  an  integral  part  of  school  and  university 
education.  The  scientific  methods  of  observation,  record, 
and  experiment  have  been  introduced  into  other  studies,  and 
the  scientific  spirit,  developed  through  the  pursuit  of  the 
sciences,  has  become  a  general  instrument  of  human  culture. 

[756] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Unhappily,  however,  this  great  and  beneficent  change  has 
not  taken  place  smoothly,   or  without  grave  conflicts  and 
violent  misunderstandings.    Partly  from  exaggerated  claims 
made  by  enthusiasts  for  the  new  learning,  and  still  more 
largely  from  a  narrow  and  obstinate  conservatism  among 
the  supporters  of  the  old,  friction  has  ensued  which  is  as 
needless  as  it  is  prejudicial.     The  idea  has  grown  up  that 
science  is  in  some  way  opposed  to  art  and  letters.    The  unity 
of  all  knowledge,  the  co-ordination  and  mutual  support  of 
all  human  effort,  has  been  lost  sight  of  on  both  sides  in  this 
controversy.     On  one  side  were  vested  interests,  old  tradi- 
tions, the  jealousy  with  which  innovations  are  apt  to  be  re- 
garded by  those  whose  minds  have  been  set  in  a  particular 
pattern,    and   who    cannot    shift   their   perspective   to   the 
changes  which  the  course  of  time  brings  about.    On  the  other 
side  were  a  revolt  against  the  domination  of  these  interests 
and  traditions,   a  rejection  of  the  stagnation  involved  in 
mere  conservatism,  and  a  necessary  assertion  of  new  needs 
and  new  methods  of  meeting  them.    But  together  with  these 
came  also  an  impatience  of  the  past,  an  outlook  narrowed 
by  its  own  eagerness,  and  a  recurrence  of  the  belief  that  the 
path  of  progress  lies  in  one,  and  in  only  one,  direction.    The 
fancied  opposition  of  science  to  art  and  letters,  and  more 
particularly  to  poetry,  is  injurious  to  the  general  interest  of 
mankind,  to  which  all  more  special  interests  are  subordinate. 
In  a  national  life  which  executes  its  functions  fully,  science 
and  poetry  will  not  be  in  conflict,  but  in  co-operation.    Each 
corresponds  to  a  need  of  life;  in  the  full  and  harmonious 
development  of  life  each  reinforces  the  other;  and  in  any 
sound  system  of  national  education  both  have  their  place, 
their  proper  and  indispensable  function. 

^  We  may  regard  this  co-operation  from  either  point  of 
view:  that  which  has  primary  regard  to  what  poetry  gains 

1:757:1 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

from  science,  and  that  which  looks,  conversely,  at  what  sci- 
ence gains  from  poetry.  The  creative  Instinct,  the  Imagina- 
tive Impulse,  which  find  expression  In  poetry,  are  powerfully 
reinforced  by  the  discoveries  of  science  and  by  the  growth 
of  the  scientific  spirit.  For  that  spirit  affects  the  whole  field 
of  mental  activity.  The  discoveries  of  science  present  the 
creative  Imagination  with  an  ampler,  richer,  and  more  won- 
derful world;  the  spirit  In  which  they  are  made  and  the 
methods  by  which  they  are  pursued  give  a  greater  Insight 
Into  that  world.  The  scientific  Imagination  Is  akin,  though 
It  works  In  a  different  field,  to  the  poetic  Imagination.  Both 
are  creative  energies;  both  work  towards  bringing  out  the 
organic  laws  of  truth  or  of  beauty  which  underlie  the  struc- 
ture of  man  and  of  the  universe  In  which  man  finds  himself. 
The  poetic  Imagination  Is,  or  ought  to  be,  kindled  by  the 
w^ork  of  science.  The  scientific  imagination  Is,  or  ought  to 
be,  kindled  by  the  work  of  poetry. 

If  we  look  to  history,  Instances  will  at  once  occur  where 
this  conjunction  has  actually  taken  place.  Ancient  Greece 
invented  science  and  perfected  the  art  of  poetry;  and  the 
development  of  Athenian  poetry  into  what  became,  and  still 
remains,  the  delight  and  wonder  of  the  world,  was  coincident 
with  the  first  growth,  among  the  same  race  and  in  the  same 
civilisation,  of  scientific  enquiry,  that  is  to  say,  of  the  search 
into  the  meaning  and  connection  of  things.  The  physical 
sciences  were  no  doubt  then  still  in  their  infancy:  but  the 
impulse  towards  them  had  been  created  and  went  side  by 
side  with  the  more  patent  and  wide-spread  Impulse  towards 
the  scientific  study  of  language  and  the  operations  of  the 
human  mind. 

So  too,  at  Rome,  the  great  poem  of  Lucretius,  in  which 
Latin  poetry  for  the  first  time  reached  its  full  stature,  was 
inspired  by  the  Epicurean  philosophy;  and  that  philosophy 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

was  not  only  a  system  of  ethics  and  a  rule  of  life,  but  was— 
and  was  thereby  distinguished  from  other  philosophies— a 
systematic  and  brilliant  attempt  to  solve  the  laws  of  nature 
and  apply  scientific  principles  to  the  construction  and  work- 
mg  of  the  physical  universe.    This  scientific  ardour  was  fixed 
by  Lucretius  as  a  poetic  Ideal.    It  was  transmitted  by  him  to 
his  great  successor  in  poetry.    Virgil,  In  the  celebrated  pas- 
sage  where  he  gives  utterance  to  his  own  ideal  of  life,  prays 
that  the  Muses  whose  servant  he  is  may  before  all  else  in- 
struct him,  not  In  the  beauties  of  what  is  called  a  poet's 
world,  river  and  woodland  and  a  pastoral  Arcadia,  but  in 
the  'causes  of  things,'  the  structure  and  law  of  the  universe. 
Beyond  poetry  and  beneath  it  lay  the  magnificent  revelations 
of  science;  and  only  through  the  mastery  of  science  could 
man  enter  into  his  Inheritance,  conquer  fate,  and  dispel  fear. 
Once  more,  at  the  Renaissance,  poetry  and  science  found 
themselves  working  In  close  union.    Each  had  a  new  birth; 
each  gave  the  other  mutual  stimulus.    Milton,  In  whom  Eng- 
lish poetry  culminated,  and  who  represents,  for  us  as  for  his 
own  time,  the  classic  standard  in  poetical  art,  was  a  pro- 
found student  of  two  sciences  which  in  his  age  were  making 
immense  advances— those  of  music  and  astronomy.     His 
scientific  knowledge  enriches  and  gives  fibre  to  his  whole 
poetry.     In  the  Taradise  Lost'  he  mentions  only  one  of  his 
contemporaries  by  name;  and  that  one,  it  is  significant  to 
notice,  is  not  a  man  of  letters,  but  the  most  eminent  man  of 
science  of  that  generation— the  physicist  and  astronomer 
Galileo.     Had  he  lived  two  hundred  years  later,  we  may 
guess  that  the  name  he  would  have  chosen  for  this  proud 
eminence  would  have  been  that  of  Darwin.    Christ's  College 
in  the  University  of  Cambridge,  where  both  Milton  and 
Darwin  received  their  education,  has  lately  been  celebrating 
the  memory  of  both.    In  that  double  celebration  we  may  see 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

vividly  not  only  the  continuity  and  interconnection  of  learn- 
ing, but  the  kinship  of  poetry  with  science,  and  the  ideal  of 
a  university. 

The  expansion  of  science  in  more  modern  times  has  been 
concurrent  with  a  similar  expansion  of  poetry.  The  diffi- 
culty which  both  poetry  and  science  have  now  to  face  lies  just 
in  this  immense  expansion  of  their  field.  Material  accumu- 
lates faster  than  it  can  be  dealt  with.  It  is  the  day  of  the 
specialist  both  in  science  and  in  the  art  of  letters.  Against 
the  narrowing  effect  of  over-specialisation  in  his  own  par- 
ticular field,  the  only  safeguard  is  that  width  of  outlook 
which  is  gained  by  grasping  life  as  a  whole,  by  mastering  its 
pattern,  as  that  pattern  is  discovered  by  the  investigation  of 
men  of  science,  and  is  re-created  or  reinterpreted  by  the 
poets. 

What  poetry  gains  from  science  is  strength  and  substance, 
a  closer  contact  with  the  truth  of  things,  and  the  power  given 
by  the  use  of  a  trained  intellect.  What  science  gains  from 
poetry  is  something  more  impalpable,  but  not  less  impor- 
tant; it  is  what  a  French  scientist  calls  elan  vital;  it  is  the 
impelling  and  organising  force  of  ideas  and  imagination. 
Without  ideas,  pure  science  is  little  more  than  a  record  of 
facts.  Without  imagination,  applied  science  is  sterile.  The 
earliest  scientific  theories  were  expressed  in  the  imaginative 
forms  of  poetry:  the  latest  are  the  application,  to  enormous 
masses  of  facts  gathered  through  observation  and  experi- 
ment, of  what  may  be  almost  called  a  creative  insight,  akin 
to,  and  based  on,  that  imaginative  power  which  is  the  essence 
of  poetical  creation,  and  which  is  fostered  by  the  study  of 
poetry.  For  by  studying  poetry  we  become  partakers,  to 
some  extent  and  according  to  our  powers,  of  the  genius  of 
the  poets;  we  develop  our  own  power  of  creative  imagina- 
tion.   Now  this  creative  imagination  is  not  a  separate  fac- 

1:760;] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

ulty,  shut  off  from  the  rest  of  our  faculties.  If  it  is  treated 
as  such,  the  results  are  disastrous:  much  of  the  suspicion  and 
dislike  with  which  poetry  has  been  regarded  among  men  of 
science  is  the  natural  result  of  a  claim  arrogated  by  men  of 
letters,  or  by  people  brought  up  in  the  tradition  of  a  time 
before  science  was  recognised  as  a  part  of  human  culture  and 
before  scientific  method  had  been  applied  to  all  the  pro- 
cesses of  life,  that  art  and  letters  were  the  only  sphere  in 
which  the  imagination  can  work.  But  it  remains  true  that  it 
is  normally  through  these  that  it  is  first  kindled.  It  remains 
true  that  the  study  of  science  is  most  effectively  pursued  by 
those  who  approach  it  with  an  intelligence  made  sensitive, 
an  imagination  quickened,  by  the  patterns  of  life  created  by 
poets  and  the  pattern-making  powef  which  the  study  of 
poetry  develops. 

If  there  are  defects  in  the  present  system  of  American 
education,  they  are  due,  according  to  the  judgment  of  many 
thoughtful  observers,  to  the  fact  that  it  hurries  towards  re- 
sults without  the  wide  preliminary  training  which  develops 
the  powers  of  the  mind  on  all  their  sides.  So  far  as  this  is 
the  case,  it  condemns  men  to  work  with  inferior  tools,  with 
an  inadequate  mental  equipment.  The  result  is  like  that  of 
an  engine  racing:  the  mind  is  not  in  gear  with  the  whole 
system  of  its  surroundings,  and  much  of  its  work  is  wasted. 
Energy  and  capacity  are  there  in  full  measure;  but  the  ca- 
pacity has  not  the  proper  field  to  deploy  itself  in;  the  energy 
is  forced  to  run  in  contracted  channels,  or,  beyond  these,  to 
run  to  waste.  Let  me  quote  here  the  striking  words  used 
recently  by  a  distinguished  man  of  science  and  one  of  the 
most  zealous  advocates  for  giving  science  a  primary  place  in 
national  education. 

^Several  Americans  have  told  me,'  says  Mr.  A.  E.  Ship- 
ley, 'that  comparatively  few  things  are  actually  invented  in 

1:761] 


%  •***■■ 


^4 

■fW!m 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 
America,  that  most  inventions  come  from  abroad,  but  are 
eageriy  taken  up  and  exploited  in  the  States.  Where 
the  American  really  shines  is  not  as  an  inventor,  but  as  a 
manufacturer.  It  is  a  striking  fact  that  originality  is  rare  in 
America,  and  I  think  it  must  be  accounted  for  by  the  educa- 
tional system.    It  stifles  originality.' 

This  is  a  grave  charge ;  but  so  far  as  the  defect  actually 
exists  it  should  be  realised,  and  so  far  as  it  is  realised  it  can 
be  remedied.     We  need  to  lay  stress-and  stress  is  being 
effectively  laid  by  neariy  all  educationalists-on  the  necessity 
and  value  of  scientific  training  for  those  who  are  destined  to 
pursue  art  and  literature.     We  need  to  lay  stress  likewise- 
and  this  need  should  not  be  neglected  or  postponed-on  the 
necessity  and  value  of  literary  and  artistic  training  for  those 
who  are  destined  to  pursue  science.     But  to  put  it  so  is  to 
state  the  case  inadequately.    For  it  is  only  a  minority  in  an 
educated  nation  who  will  do  either,  whose  life  will  be  de- 
voted wholly  either  to  literary  and  artistic,  or  to  scientific 
pursuits.    Not  only  for  these  two  limited  classes,  but  for  the 
whole  of  the  nation  of  the  future,  the  ideal  which  rises  be- 
fore us  is  that  of  an  education  developing  all  the  faculties  in 
harmony;  of  a  nation  brought  into  touch  with  the  facts  of 
Nature  and  her  laws,  and  into  touch  no  less  with  the  best  of 
what  has  been  thought  and  felt  by  mankind  and  with  its 
noblest  and  most  beautiful  expression.    And  this  last  is  given 
us  by  poetry.    Nature,  as  Bacon  said,  is  conquered  by  obe- 
dience; and  science  teaches  us  the  laws  to  be  obeyed  and  the 
mastery  over  Nature  which  may  be  achieved  by  this  obe- 
dience.    Life  is  grasped  and  ordered  by  imaginative  insight; 
and  poetry  teaches  us  the  pattern  of  that  order,  and  creates 
m  us  a  new  meaning,  a  new  beauty  and  value,  for  the  worid 
and  for  ourselves. 

1762:1 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


I 


V 
POETRY  AND  BUSINESS 

ONLY  a  few  dedicate  their  life  to  the  pursuit  of  science, 
only  a  few  to  the  pursuit  of  art  and  letters.    But  we 
have  all,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  to  do  business.    In  it  we 
have,  directly  or  indirectly,  our  means  of  subsistence  and  our 
current  occupation.    Business  is  the  substructure  of  life.    A 
scientific  community  only  means  a  community  in  which  cer- 
tain persons  (comparatively  a  few)  work  systematically  at 
science.     They  record  their  inventions  or  discoveries;  they 
communicate  the  results  of  their  research  and  the  stimulus  of 
their  enthusiasm  to  others;  and  thus  a  certain  secondary  sci- 
entific knowledge,   a  certain  appreciation  of  the  scientific 
spirit  and  a  large  power  of  using  scientific  results,  reaches 
through  the  mass  of  the  people  and  colours  the  national  life. 
A  literary  and  artistic  community  only  means  a  community 
in  which  certain  persons  (these  also  comparatively  a  few) 
do  creative  work  in  art  and  letters,  and  in  the  main  body  of 
which  there  is  a  certain  appreciation  of  that  work,   and 
through  it  of  the  art  and  thought  of  other  centuries  and  ages 
likewise.    But  a  business  community  means  one  in  which  the 
whole  mass  and  body  of  the  nation,  with  insignificant  excep- 
tions, is  engaged  in  business  as  its  daily  function,  in  which 
business  is  the  staple  of  the  national  activity. 

The  United  States  are  the  greatest  business  community  in 
the  world.  Industry  and  commerce  have  been,  from  the 
earliest  days  of  the  Republic,  the  chief  pursuits  of  the  na- 
tion, those  to  which  it  has  applied  itself  constantly  and 

1:7633 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

eagerly,  upon  which  it  has  grown  and  thriven.  On  them  the 
whole  social  fabric  has  been  built  up.  With  the  vast  increase 
of  wealth  due  to  expanding  population  and  increased  power 
of  handling  or  creating  material  resources,  the  energy  of 
business  has  kept  increasing  likewise,  and  its  claims  on  life 
have  become  more  and  more  imperious.  A  sort  of  fury  of 
industry  set  in  with  the  extension  of  the  nation  over  the  Mid- 
dle and  Western  States,  and  just  at  the  same  time  the  great 
discoveries  of  applied  science  began  to  be  made  which  have 
increased  a  hundredfold  the  control  of  man  over  nature. 
After  the  Civil  War  the  reunited  nation  plunged  into  the 
business  of  material  development  on  a  scale  and  with  a  pas- 
sion until  then  unknown  in  history.  The  business  to  be  done 
multiplied  faster  than  the  hands  who  were  there  to  do  it. 
Everything  became  speeded  up.  Business  encroached  on  all 
other  national  activities,  and  threatened  to  overwhelm  the 
whole  of  life.  Against  this  over-encroachment  the  national 
conscience  is  now  beginning  to  rise  up,  and  to  reassert  the 
claims  of  a  smoother,  less  hurried,  less  perplexed  life,  not 
loaded  down  and  breathless  under  the  weight  of  its  own 
machinery,  but  using  that  machinery  towards  ampler  ends— 
as  its  master,  not  its  slave. 

Poetry  and  business  may  seem  to  have  little  to  do  with 
each  other;  or  their  relation,  so  far  as  any  exists,  to  be  one 
of  mutual  dislike  and  antagonism.  Business  methods  are 
not  the  methods  of  art.  The  man  of  business  is  apt  to  re- 
gard poetry  with  contempt;  and  his  contempt  is  fully  recipro- 
cated by  many  followers  of  poetry.  Yet  if  both  are 
necessary  elements  in  civilised  life,  there  must  be  some  un- 
derstanding to  be  come  to  between  them,  some  harmony  at- 
tainable. No  poet  can  afford  to  neglect  the  machinery  of 
industry;  for  by  means  of  it  he,  like  all  other  men,  lives. 
But  neither  can  the  man  of  business  afford  (if  he  knew  it) 

[764] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

to  neglect  poetry;  for  in  it  the  life  which  he,  like  all  other 
men,  lives  receives  its  meaning  and  interpretation.  Business 
is  a  means,  not  an  end.  Its  uses  are  necessary  and  great;  but 
they  require  to  be  adjusted  to  ends  beyond  itself,  beyond 
business  for  its  own  sake,  if  the  life  of  the  business  man  is  to 
be  one  in  which  the  full  human  capacities  can  be  worthily 
employed.  If  his  life  is  not  touched  and  uplifted  by  imagina- 
tion, he  is  the  slave  of  business,  and  not  its  master. 

For  some,  indeed,  — and  more  perhaps  in  America  than 
elsewhere,— business  is  more  than  an  occupation:  it  is  an  art, 
and  its  exercise  has  a  quality  which  might  almost  be  called 
creative.  The  born  man  of  business  loves  it  for  its  own 
sake;  and  love  implies  some  sort  of  ideal,  some  sort  of  exer- 
cise of  the  imaginative  as  well  as  of  the  practical  faculties. 
Or  we  may  rather  say  that  the  imaginative  faculty,  checked 
elsewhere,  and  not  finding  its  natural  outlet,  forces  itself 
into  the  one  channel  left  open  for  it,  and  to  some  extent  in- 
forms the  life  of  business  with  ideals  of  its  own,  not  to  be 
scorned  or  denied,  however  short  they  may  come  of  the 
higher  and  larger  ideal.  Without  some  such  imaginative 
touch  upon  it,  — and  the  touch  is  at  best  imperfect  and  rare, 
—how  grey  and  joyless  the  purely  business  life  is;  how  pur- 
poseless it  seems  in  moments  of  serious  reflection;  how 
prosaic  a  world  it  offers  I  It  keeps  the  world  going,  but  at 
what  a  waste  of  the  energies  engaged  on  that  laborious  task! 
Let  me  quote  what  was  said,  sixty  years  ago,  by  an  able  man 
of  business,  a  master  of  the  theory  and  practice  of  finance. 
*By  dull  care,'  he  wrote,  'by  stupid  industry,  a  certain  social 
fabric  somehow  exists.  People  contrive  to  go  out  to  their 
work,  and  to  find  work  to  employ  them;  body  and  soul  are 
kept  together.  And  this  is  what  mankind  have  to  shew  for 
their  six  thousand  years  of  toil  and  trouble!*  These  words 
of  Bagehot  are  as  true  now  as  they  were  then.    The  human 

1:7653 


!  \ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

race  want  more  than  to  keep  body  and  soul  together:  they 
want,  and  claim,  not  merely  the  continuance,  but  the  fruition 
of  life.     Machinery  to  keep  the  world  going  is  necessary; 
but  it  is  not  necessary,  it  is  not  right,  that  it  should  be  kept 
going  by  turning  masses  of  the  nation  into  mere  parts  of  the 
machine.     For  this  would  indeed  be,  in  the  noble  line  of  a 
Latin  poet,  propter  vitam  vivendi  perdere  causas,  'for  the 
sake  of  life  to  throw  away  all  that  makes  life  worth  living.' 
It  was  not  for  this  that  man  was  created.    It  was  not  for  this 
that  the  rights  of  man  were  asserted.     To  be  enslaved  to 
business  is  no  less  servitude  than  to  be  branded  with  the 
name  and  work  at  the  caprice  of  a  slave-owner.     And  as 
with  the  chattel  slavery  abolished  by  the  Republic  half  a 
century  ago,  so  with  this  subtler  but  equally  real  slavery  to 
business  (whether  forced  on  the  individual  by  circumstances 
or  adopted  by  him  of  his  own  will  under  the  illusion  that  it 
will  bring  him  the  real  wealth  of  life) ,  the  evil  effects  spread 
far  beyond  the  slaves  themselves:  they  contract,  degrade, 
and  vitiate  the  whole  life  of  a  nation. 

In  common  speech,  as  in  popular  thought,  business  is  op- 
posed to  pleasure.  This  is  highly  significant.  So  far  as  the 
opposition  represents  a  fact— and  if  it  does  not  represent  a 
fact,  how  are  we  to  explain  its  prevalence,  its  being  taken 
everywhere  for  granted?— it  means  that  the  unity  of  life  has 
been  lost.  Business  that  does  not  bring  pleasure  with  it,  and 
in  it,  is  only  drudgery.  It  sustains  life,  but  the  life  which  it 
sustains  is  thin  and  barren.  It  accumulates  wealth,  but  the 
value  of  wealth  depends  on  the  use  made  of  it,  and  national, 
like  private,  riches  are  but  the  substructure  of  national  well- 
being:  they  are  the  means  of  living,  not  the  object  of  life. 
To  bring  business  and  pleasure  into  their  true  relation,  busi- 
ness must  be  elevated  from  a  mechanism  into  an  art.  This 
is  not  done  by  legislation :  it  is  done  by  the  self-realisation  of 

1:766^ 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENLNG 

the    human    spirit.      Towards   this    self-realisation    poetry 
works;  and  therefore  a  nation  needs  poetry. 

Business,  or  industry,  has  two  sides— production  and  or- 
ganisation.   In  order  to  elevate  it  into  an  art  it  must  be  car- 
ried on  with  pleasure  and  for  the  sake  of  pleasure.    For  this 
is  the  definition  of  art:  it  is  production  with  pleasure  and  for 
the  sake  of  producing.    The  pleasure  of  production  is  given 
by  the  pattern  or  ideal  in  the  mind  of  the  producer.     And 
similarly,  the  pleasure  of  organisation  is  given  by  the  pattern 
or  ideal  in  the  mind  of  the  organiser.    Now  the  function  of 
poetry,  as  we  have  seen,  is  to  create  patterns  or  ideals  of  life ; 
and  the  study  of  poetry  means  the  reception  into  the  mind 
of  these  patterns  of  life  created  by  the  poets,  and  their  as- 
similation by  the  sympathetic  instinct  which  they  awaken. 
Thus  received  and  assimilated,  they  fertilise  life  and  make  it 
fruitful ;  they  make  industry  into  a  conscious  pleasure.    The 
beauty  and  the  joy  of  life  which  they  embody  become  part  of 
our  own  life.    Our  industry  becomes  truly  creative ;  our  busi- 
ness is  not  carried  on  as  a  burden,  but  exercised  as  an  art. 
Work  and  enjoyment  are  no  longer  contrary  forces  tearing 
our  life  asunder  between  them.     Poetry,  through  the  pat- 
terns of  life  created  by  the  great  poets,  will  raise  us  above 
our  own  lives,  give  us  spiritual  control  over  them,  make  the 
conduct  of  them  no  mere  mechanical  keeping  of  things  going 
from  day  to  day,  but  the  daily  exercise  of  faculties  through 
which  we  are  partakers  in  a  full  humanity. 

Poets  are  often  called  dreamers,  and  some  poets  have 
been  such.  For  the  making  of  poetry  is,  like  the  other  arts, 
also  an  industry;  and,  like  other  industries,  it  can  be  pursued 
mechanically:  the  poet  may  become  absorbed  in  the  work- 
manship of  his  art,  and  practise  it,  as  the  business  man  may 
practise  his  business,  from  mere  habit,  when  he  has  lost  the 
vital  energy  of  creation.     Or,  like  other  ways  of  life,  it  can 

1:767:] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 
be  pursued  with  too  much  absorption;  and,  cutting  itself 
away  from  the  deep  roots  of  thought,  emotion,  and  experi- 
ence, it  may  become  a  tissue  of  fantasies  where  the  creative 
or  imaginative  powers  have  been  working  in  a  vacuum,  and 
the  patterns  of  life  which  they  produce  dissolve  in  the  very 
act  of  forming  themselves ;  as  in  some  witch's  weaving,   the 
web,  reeled  off,  curls  and  goes  out  like  steam.'    Nor  is  the 
study  of  poetry  free  from  the  same  danger.     Those  who 
neglect  business,  which  is  the  foundation  of  life,  and  conduct, 
which  in  the  famous  phrase  is  three-fourths  of  life,  for  the 
mere  study  of  poetry  as  an  art,  may  still  find  in  that  study 
both  pleasure  and  occupation;  but  when  thus  cut  off  frc,m 
what  should  be  its  foundation  and  substance,  such  study  de- 
generates :  it  is  apt  to  turn  into  the  assiduity  of  the  pedant  or 
into  the  busy  idleness  of  the  dilettante.    For  those  who  con- 
tent themselves  with  it-and  all  the  more  if  by  it  they  drug 
themselves  into  unconcern  with  activity  and  duty-the  cen- 
sure of  the  practical  man  of  business  is  justified,  and  his 
contempt  intelligible.    They  discredit  the  study  of  poetry  by 
studying  it  wrongly.    Not  one  of  the  least  important  func- 
tions which  an  institution  of  higher  education  fulfils  is  to 
direct  and  organise  this  study  so  as  to  make  it  really  fertile, 
and  to  combine  it  with  other  studies  in  the  scope  of  a  traming 
at  once  liberal  and  practical.     The  product  of  such  institu- 
tions, so  far  as  they  succeed  in  doing  what  they  set  out  to  do, 
will   be   men   and  women   nurtured   among  the   ideals   of 
thought  and  art,  made  sensitive  to  beauty,  quickened  by 
sympathetic  intelligence,  yet  not  so  the  less  competent,  but 
the  more,  to  take  their  share  in  the  business  of  the  world,  in 
commerce  or  finance  or  industry.    A  generation  so  equipped 
for  life,  and  sent  into  it  with  the  whole  range  of  their  facul- 
ties so  developed,  will  not  only  keep  the  world  going,  but 
will  raise  the  whole  national  life  to  a  higher  plane.    They 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

will  be  in  the  highest  sense  good  citizens:  and  in  the  good- 
ness of  its  citizens  lie  the  excellence  and  the  true  greatness 
of  the  state. 

The  ideals  of  citizenship  include  in  them  nearly  all  the 
lesser  or  more  partial  ideals  aimed  at  through  the  specialisa- 
tion of  faculty  on  particular  pursuits.  By  their  wider  scope 
and  larger  outlook  they  connect  and  balance  these  others.  It 
is  the  privilege,  as  it  is  the  duty,  of  a  community  which 
through  the  labour  of  past  generations  has  conquered  and 
cleared  a  dwelling-place  for  itself,  to  set  in  order  and  beau- 
tify its  house.  The  pursuit  of  riches,  of  material  comfort, 
even  of  greatness,  is  with  the  nation,  as  with  the  individual, 
a  pursuit  upon  which  the  whole  of  life  should  not  be  spent. 
Until  now  the  Republic  has  had  her  hands  full  with  a  great, 
necessary,  and  engrossing  task— that  of  creating  a  nation, 
of  organising  a  commonwealth,  of  bringing  the  resources  of 
a  continent  under  her  control  and  asserting  her  place  and 
dignity  in  the  world.  Upon  that  vast  structure  the  spirit  of 
beauty  must  be  breathed,  into  it  the  patterns  of  noble 
thought,  action,  and  emotion  must  be  brought,  to  make  the 
Republic  of  the  future  fulfil  the  plan  of  its  founders,  and 
justify  the  vast  labour  that  past  generations  have  lavished 
on  building  it  up  into  material  stability. 


[7693 


m 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


VI 

POETRY  AND  DEMOCRACY 

THE  suspicion  or  dislike  with  which  poetry  is  regarded 
by  practical  people,  however  unjust  or  exaggerated, 
has  Its  reasons,  and  has  existed  in  all  ages  and  under  all 
organisations  of  society.  But  in  a  democracy  poetry  lies 
under  another  special  charge,  which  if  made  good  against  it 
would  be  fatal.  It  is  regarded  as  the  amusement  of  a 
leisured  class,  as  something  savouring  of  an  aristocratic  so- 
ciety. Art  and  letters  as  a  whole  share  in  this  charge,  but  it 
falls  on  poetry  with  special  force.  Some  kinds  of  literature 
have  an  obvious  popular  interest  and  make  an  obvious  appeal 
to  the  mass  of  the  nation.  Some  of  the  fine  arts  are  applied 
directly,  like  architecture,  to  the  public  service,  or  directly 
aflfect,  like  music,  the  sensibility  of  massed  audiences.  Others 
are  excused,  rather  than  approved,  because  they  employ 
labour,  encourage  special  industries,  and  produce  tangible 
material  products.  This  is  not  the  case  with  poetry.  It 
stands  or  falls  on  its  own  merits,  in  its  own  inherent  virtue. 

But  poetry  is  a  function  of  life;  and  where  life  is  organ- 
ised under  democratic  standards  poetry  is,  or  should  be,  a 
function  of  the  democratised  nation.  Much  of  the  poetry  of 
the  past  has  been  produced  by  and  for  a  small  cultured  class. 
In  aristocratic  societies  such  a  class  was  the  pivot  and  guid- 
ing force  of  the  nation;  in  it  the  imaginative  ideals  and  the 
creative  instincts  of  the  whole  people  were  concentrated,  or, 
so  far  as  they  existed  elsewhere,  were  used  by  it  for  its  own 
purposes.     The  rest  of  the  nation  was  but  the  soil  out  of 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

which  that  flower  grew,  or  the  fuel  consumed  to  give  the 
ruling  class  sustenance,  ease,  and  material  force  ready  to  its 
hand.  The  public  conscience  now  demands  that  there  shall 
be  no  ruling  class,  but  that  all  shall  be  fitted  to  rule.  The 
aristocracy  of  intellect  is  subject  to  the  same  vices,  and  falls 
under  the  same  condemnation,  as  the  old  aristocracy  of 
birth,  or  the  cruder  modern  aristocracy  of  riches.  The  ideal 
of  democracy — far,  indeed,  yet  from  being  realised,  but  felt 
everywhere,  alike  by  its  opponents  and  its  followers,  as  a 
pressure  steadily  moving  mankind  in  a  particular  direction- 
is  that  culture,  like  wealth  and  leisure,  should  be  diffused 
through  the  whole  nation.  It  abolishes  the  distinction  be- 
tween active  and  passive  citizens,  between  a  governing  caste 
and  a  governed  people.  That  is  its  political  aspect.  But  its 
larger  and  nobler  ideal  is  that  of  a  community  in  which  not 
only  the  task  and  responsibility  of  setting  its  own  house  in 
order  and  swaying  its  own  destinies,  but  the  whole  conduct 
and  development  of  its  own  culture,  shall  be  universally 
shared;  in  which  not  only  government,  but  life  in  its  full 
compass,  shall  be  conducted  by  the  people  for  the  people;  in 
which  the  human  race  shall  be  joint  inheritors  of  the  fruits 
of  the  human  spirit. 

Only  once,  and  among  a  single  people,  has  this  ideal  been 
partially  realised  in  the  past.  The  democracy  of  Athens  set 
no  less  an  aim  before  itself,  and  for  a  brilliant  moment 
seemed  to  have  attained  it.  Poetry  and  art  reached  their 
climax  there  together  with  democratic  government.  It  was 
the  boast  of  Athens  that  culture  no  less  than  political  power 
was  shared  by  all  her  citizens.  Poets  and  artists  drew  from 
that  national  atmosphere  the  creative  and  imaginative 
power  which  they  embodied  In  their  work,  and  returned  to 
the  nation  in  visible  and  immortal  shapes  the  patterns  of  life 
with  which  the  nation  had  inspired  them.    But  the  Athenian 


N 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

democracy  rested  on  insecure  foundations.  Like  so  many 
bright  things,  it  came  quickly  to  confusion,  leaving  behind 
it  only  a  memory  and  an  ideal  to  inspire  all  future  ages. 
Many  centuries  had  to  elapse  before  the  ideal  of  a  civilised 
democracy  was  again  raised  as  a  standard  before  mankind 
by  the  founders  of  the  American  Republic. 

The  crimes  and  follies  of  the  Middle  Ages,  it  has  been 
well  said,  were  those  of  a  complex  bureaucracy  in  a  half- 
civilised  state.  It  is  towards  the  end  of  the  Middle  Ages 
that  we  find  the  beginnings  of  national  self-consciousness, 
and,  with  it,  of  democratic  poetry,  embodying  patterns  of 
national  life.  Nor  was  this  all.  As  the  inchoate  or  em- 
bryonic democracy  began  to  be  conscious  of  itself,  it  began 
also  to  be  conscious  of  art,  even  when  that  art  was  the  art 
produced  among  and  for  a  limited  class.  As  it  began  to  be 
civilised,  it  began  to  have  sympathy  with  the  products  of 
civilisation,  and  to  take,  if  not  yet  to  assert,  some  share  in 
them.  The  ideal  world  of  romance  and  chivalry  opened  out 
before  it  as  something  in  which  it  could  find  patterns  of  life 
for  itself.  A  common  and  universal  religion,  which  in 
theory  at  least  recognised  no  distinction  between  classes, 
between  riches  and  poverty,  between  prince  and  people, 
gave  a  wide  popular  basis  to  all  the  arts  which  were  em- 
ployed in  its  service.  Education  began  to  leaven  the  com- 
munity. Poetry  sought  and  found  a  wider  audience.  Shake- 
speare produced  his  plays  not  for  a  literary  class  nor  for  a 
court  circle,  but  for  the  populace  of  London  who  flocked  to 
see  and  hear  them.  His  own  sympathies  with  the  people 
have  been  doubted  or  denied;  he  seems,  in  the  mouths  of  his 
characters,  to  speak  of  them  with  something  like  contempt. 
But  he  gave  them  a  national  drama.  Even  the  epic,  that 
stately  form  of  poetry  which  has  thriven  in  the  courts  of 
princes  and  deals  with  the  high  actions  and  passions  of  the 

[772] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

great,  became  in  a  wider  sense  national.  The  verses  of 
Ariosto  andTasso,  court  poetry  written  for  a  highly-educated 
aristocratic  circle,  were  sung  by  Venetian  gondoliers  and 
Lombard  vine-dressers,  as  those  of  Pindar  had  been  sung  in 
ancient  Greece  by  fishermen,  and  as  those  of  Virgil  are 
found  scrawled  on  street  walls  in  Pompeii.  In  England, 
Milton,  a  poet  of  profound  learning  and  extraordinary  tech- 
nical skill,  was  read  and  appreciated  not  only  by  scholars  or 
artists,  but  widely  among  a  people  whose  study  of  the  Bible 
had  introduced  them  to  literature  and  taught  them  in  some 
measure  to  appreciate  poetry.  His  genius  penetrated  and 
inspired  the  Puritan  democracy;  and  though  his  own  repub- 
licanism was  of  a  severely  aristocratic  type,  he  may  be  called 
in  some  sense  the  source  of  republican  poetry.  For,  once 
poetry  had  taken  to  do  with  the  fate  and  destiny  of  man- 
kind itself,  it  had  to  concern  itself  with  the  life  and  labour 
of  the  people  as  the  main  factor  in  human  affairs.  It  found 
the  reflection  of  the  kingdom  of  God  in  the  commonwealth 
of  mankind.  The  freedom  of  God's  ransomed  drew  with 
it  as  its  consequence  a  freedom  which  was  of  this  world. 
The  equality  of  men  before  God  bore  with  it  their  equality 
of  rights  and  dignity  here.  The  brotherhood  of  all  God's 
children  led  on  to  the  doctrine  of  a  true  fraternity,  not  only 
religious  but  political  and  social  likewise,  linking  together  all 
members  of  the  human  race. 

The  eighteenth  century,  that  great  germinal  age  of  the 
human  spirit,  the  age  in  which  not  only  the  American  Com- 
monwealth but  the  modern  world  was  created,  was  one  in 
which  poetry  held  itself  back.  It  was  waiting  for  the  shap- 
ing of  the  new  structure  of  life:  the  task  lay  before  it  of 
fashioning  that  structure  into  new  imaginative  patterns,  and 
giving  it  thereby  organic  form  and  vital  interpretation.  To- 
wards the  end  of  the  century  this  preliminary  work  was  well 

[773] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

on  foot :  the  new  world  was  taking  substance,  and  lay  ready 
for  the  transforming  touch  of  the  poets.  The  American 
Revolution  had  created  the  Republic.  The  French  Revolu- 
tion had  shattered  the  old  regime  and  its  tradition  in  Europe. 
The  Industrial  Revolution  was  transforming  the  whole 
mechanism  and  texture  of  civilised  life.  In  both  continents 
a  new  world  had  begun.  It  was  the  world  of  the  Rights  of 
Man,  of  the  carriere  ouverte,  of  the  sovereignty  of  the 
People;  and  into  this  world  poetry  let  itself  loose,  to  create, 
to  interpret,  to  vivify.  The  idea  of  democracy  had  arisen 
among  the  thinkers  and  been  translated  into  action  by  the 
statesmen;  the  patterns  of  a  democratic  world  began  to  be 
wrought  out  by  the  poets. 

Among  the  great  English  poets  of  that  age,  the  greatest, 
in  the  combined  mass  and  excellence  of  his  work,  is  gen- 
erally accounted  to  be  Wordsworth.  He  divined  the  new 
age,  but  did  not  enter  into  it.  His  early  democratic  enthu- 
siasm, chilled  by  the  terrors  of  the  French  Revolution,  be- 
came converted  first  into  despair,  and  then  into  a  search,  in 
the  recesses  of  his  own  mind,  for  ideals  of  life  independent 
of  external  things.  Yet  he  was  the  first,  after  Burns,  — and 
Burns  was  then  still  only  the  poet  of  a  small  nation,  not  of 
the  English-speaking  race,— to  link  poetry  with  the  require- 
ments of  nascent  democracy.  In  his  'Lyrical  Ballads,'  as  in 
the  poems  which  succeeded  them  during  his  greatest  period, 
he  set  himself  expressly  and  deliberately  to  write  poetry  in 
the  language  of  the  people,  and  to  seek  the  material  out  of 
which  poetry  was  to  be  shaped  in  the  common  thoughts  and 
passions  and  experiences  of  mankind. 

Hardly  less  was  the  share  borne  in  the  democratisation  of 
poetry  by  other  great  poets  of  that  great  period.  Byron, 
himself  an  aristocrat  by  birth,  believed  in  democracy;  by  his 
appeal  to  the  elemental  human  passions  he  brought  the  im- 

1:7743 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

pact  of  poetry  on  the  larger  world  which  was  prepared  to 
receive  it.  Shelley  reared  before  the  eyes  of  that  larger 
world  the  glittering  fabric  of  an  imaginatively  reconstructed 
universe  in  which,  freed  from  tyranny  and  superstition,  from 
selfishness  and  apathy,  the  human  race  might  develop  its 
noblest  qualities,  and  life  be  one  long  ecstasy  of  joy.  Even 
those  who  regard  Byron  as  a  beautiful  fiend,  and  Shelley  as 
an  ineffectual  angel,  must  admit  the  truth  of  the  striking 
words  used  of  them  by  Tennyson,  that  these  two  poets,  'how- 
ever mistaken  they  may  be,  did  yet  give  the  world  another 
heart  and  new  pulses.' 

Even  more  striking  and  significant  is  the  attitude  towards 
an  anticipated  democracy,  and  the  part  to  be  played  in  it  by 
poetry,  which  was  taken  by  Keats.    He  was  the  youngest  of 
that  great  group  of  revolutionary  poets,  the  most  gifted  and 
the  most  splendid  in  his  wonderful  promise  and  unfinished 
achievement.     Beyond  all  those  others,  with  a  width  and 
foresight  of  vision  all  his  own,  he  pointed  and  urged  poetry 
forward.    The  horizon  to  which  he  saw  is  still  distant  and 
unreached.     That  'joy  in  widest  commonalty  spread,'  of 
which   Wordsworth   had   profound   glimpses,    and   which 
Shelley  saw,  as  it  were,  through  an  iridescent  burning  mist, 
lay  before  the  eyes  of  Keats,  clearly,  definitely,  attainably. 
The  world  to  which  he  looked  forward  was  one  in  which,  as 
he  says,  'every  human  being  might  become  great,  and  hu- 
manity, instead  of  being  a  wide  heath  of  furze  and  briars, 
with  here  and  there  a  remote  oak  or  pine,  would  become  a 
grand  democracy  of  forest  trees.'     In  that  image  he  em- 
bodies for  us  the  ideal  of  democracy  in  the  highest  and 
amplest  form.    And  of  this  democratic  ideal,  poetry,  because 
coextensive  with  human  life,  will  be  the  informing  spirit. 

Democracy,  we  are  often  told,  is  on  its  trial.     The  bril- 
liant promises  of  its  youth  have  not  been  realised.     It  has 

17752 


X 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

not  transformed  human  nature.  It  has  not  done  away  with 
the  vices  of  older  civilisations,  and  it  has  developed  new 
faults  of  it<5  own.  It  is,  among  many  of  those  who  do  not 
expressly  reject  it,  accepted  wearily  as  a  necessity  rather 
than  embraced  eagerly  as  a  faith.  Citizenship  has  with 
them  become  a  burden,  not  an  inspiration.  Freedom  and 
equality  have  sunk  into  mere  formulary  names,  giving 
neither  light  nor  heat,  having  little  to  do  with  the  actual 
conduct  and  motives  of  life.  Material  progress  goes  on 
mechanically;  the  higher  progress,  the  fuller  self-realisation 
of  mankind,  is  doubted  or  denied.  Once  more,  as  Words- 
worth complained  a  century  ago,  false  gods  have  been  en- 
throned in  the  temple  of  the  human  spirit. 

The  wealthiest  man  among  us  is  the  best; 
No  grandeur  now  in  nature  or  in  hook 
Delights  us:  rapine,  avarice,  expense,— 
This  is  idolatry,  and  these  we  adore: 
Plain  living  and  high  thinking  are  no  more. 

So  Wordsworth  wrote  then;  and  we  must  remember,  if 
we  are  inclined  to  be  despondent  over  the  present  case  of 
democracy,  that  our  dissatisfaction  is  no  new  thing,  and  that 
the  mere  fact  of  our  being  dissatisfied  shews  that  we  have 
not  lost  sight  of  higher  ideals,  and  have  the  impulse  in  us, 
if  we  can  direct  and  sustain  it,  to  resume  our  progress  to- 
wards them. 

Poetry  is  also  on  its  trial.  The  patterns  of  life  it  offers  to 
us,  the  interpretation  of  life  with  which  it  presents  us,  seem 
to  many  unreal  and  remote.  It  speaks  a  strange  language, 
thin  and  ghostly  to  the  ears  that  are  not  attuned  to  it;  it 
often  holds  itself  aloof  from,  or  mingles  but  passingly  with, 

[776] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

the  main  current  and  texture  of  occupations  and  endeavours, 
of  private  pursuits  or  public  interests. 

Each  alike  suffers  from  the  divorce  that  is  between  them. 
A  democracy  which  excludes  or  ignores  poetry  cuts  itself  off 
from  one  of  the  main  sources  of  vital  strength  and  national 
greatness.  A  poetry  which  is  out  of  sympathy  with  democ- 
racy is  thereby  out  of  touch  with  actual  life.  But  the  future 
that  lies  before  both  is  splendid,  if  both  will  work  in  har- 
mony, if  national  life  is  inspired  and  sustained  by  poetry, 
and  poetry  takes  nothing  less  than  that  life  for  its  province, 
gives  it  a  heightened  meaning,  brings  out  from  it  the  latent 
patterns  of  beauty  after  which  it  blindly  but  unceasingly 
aspires.  Poetry,  as  Dryden  said  of  it,  is  articulate  music: 
the  music  to  which  life  moves,  and  in  which  it  finds  its  dis- 
cords resolved. 

Such  is  the  task  and  function  of  the  poets.  But  the  study 
of  poetry  is  not  for  poets  alone,  any  more  than  the  study  of 
colour  and  form  is  confined  to  painters,  or  the  study  of  music 
to  composers.  The  appeal  of  art  is  universal.  The  in- 
heritance of  the  present  age  is  not  merely  the  present,  but 
the  whole  past  as  well.  Of  that  inheritance,  the  great  poetry 
of  the  world,  from  Homer  downwards,  is  the  most  precious 
portion.  It  preserves  for  us,  still  alive  and  still  having 
power  to  move  and  kindle,  the  best  of  what  mankind  has 
thought  and  felt,  the  most  perfect  forms  into  which  it  has 
cast  its  vision  and  reflection,  its  emotion  and  aspiration.  And 
thus  the  study  of  poetry  is  part  of  democratic  education;  and 
the  poetry  of  democracy,  kindled  by  that  study  and  appeal- 
ing to  a  nation  educated  in  it,  will  be  the  articulate  music  of 
national  life. 

John  William  Mackail. 


i 


iiii'] 


r~;4u-:::,,'!,t.,irT'-i^£--;2 


THE  SYSTEM  OF  THE  SCIENCES 

PRINCIPLES  OF  THE  THEORY 
OF  EDUCATION' 


First  Lecture 
THE  SYSTEM  OF  THE  SCIENCES 

AT  the  moment  when  the  Rice  Institute  undertakes  to 
£\.   begin  its  public  work  and  to  organize  the  wide  and 
splendid  educational  activity  for  which  it  was  intended,  I  do 
not  know  of  any  subject  that  could  affect  the  development  of 
its  future  more  extensively  and  more  deeply  than  the  prob- 
lem of  the  System  of  the  Sciences.     Judged  by  its  present 
state,  the  problem  appears  more  like  a  pastime  for  idle 
minds  than  a  practical  question  of  far-reaching  importance. 
For  at  the  present  time  there  does  not  exist  a  single  system 
of  this  kind,  generally  accepted  and  universally  employed, 
and  the  numerous  attempts  of  various  investigators  to  estab- 
lish such  a  system  have  not  yet  received  the  recognition 
which,  on  the  one  hand,  would  be  a  guarantee  of  its  effective- 
ness, and,  on  the  other  hand,  an  indication  that  by  the  estab- 
lishment of  such  a  system  one  has  discovered,  in  a  measure 
at  least,  the  correct  and  suitable  thing.     Nevertheless,  such 
a  system  is  a  crying  need,  as  is  apparent  at  the  present  mo- 
ment, when  we  are  confronted  by  the  problem  of  attaining 
a  complete  survey  of  all  conceivable  and  possible  sciences 
and  similar  activities  of  the  human  mind  for  the  purpose  of 

1  Two  lectures  prepared  for  the  inauguration  of  the  Rice  Institute,  by  Privy 
Councilor  Professor  Wilhelm  Ostwald,  late  Professor  of  Chemistry  in  the 
University  of  Leipsic,  Nobel  Laureate  in  Chemistry,  1909.  Translated  from 
the  German  by  Professor  Thomas  Lindsey  Blayney  of  the  Rice  Institute. 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

sketching  a  normal  and  rational  plan  for  the  realization  of 
the  fundamental  aim  of  the  Rice  Institute.    It  may  suffice  at 
first,  as  has  happened  in  the  case  of  this  institution,  to  select 
somewhat  at  random  indubitable  branches  of  science—/.^., 
to  let  ourselves  be  guided  by  the  demands  and  the  attain- 
ments of  our  time— in  order  to  be  sure  that  at  its  organiza- 
tion at  least  a  part  of  the  entire  range  of  science  has  been 
incorporated.     But  in  measure  as  the  present  plans  widen 
and  it  becomes  necessary  to  envisage  more  accurately  de- 
partments of  this  institution  which  are  to  be  developed  in  the 
future,  the  need  of  a  rational  system  that  will  include  the 
functions  of  science  as  a  whole  will  make  itself  felt  more  and 
more  imperatively,  and  thus  we  shall  be  able  only  to  post- 
pone, but  not  to  avoid,  the  question  that  confronts  us  here. 
If  we  look  about  us  to  see  how  the  problem  has  been 
solved  by  the  universities  which  have  been  founded  here- 
tofore  for  the   advancement   of   science,    from   an   educa- 
tional standpoint  as  well  as  for  the  purpose  of  scientific 
research  and  development,  we  shall  find,  generally  speaking, 
the  traditional  four,  sometimes  five  faculties.    To  the  oldest 
faculty— the    theological— law    and    medicine    have    been 
added,  and  all  of  the  remaining  sciences  are  united  in  the 
fourth— the  philosophical  faculty— which  here  and  there,  on 
account  of  its  wealth  of  subject-matter,  has  already  been 
divided  into  two  parts,  the  one  including  the  natural  sciences 
and  the  other  the  so-called  mental  or  historical  sciences.    If 
one  raises  the  question  as  to  the  reason  for  this  division,  it 
will  be  seen  that  it  is  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  sort  of  fossil,  as 
the  fixation  of  a  condition  which  belonged  to  the  oldest 
period  in  the  historical  development  of  these  institutions, 
and  was  in  keeping  with  them,  and  which  at  the  present  time 
has  completely  lost  its  earlier  significance.     We  know  that 
all  sciences  in  the  early  stages  of  their  development  formed 

[779] 


X 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

one  great  whole,  which,  together  with  all  other  departments 
of  human  activity  having  to  do  with  mental  work  and  cogita- 
tion, was  intrusted  to  the  oversight  of  a  single  corporation 
—the  priesthood.  A  division  of  labor  came  only  in  the 
course  of  higher  development,  when  the  sum  of  all  know- 
ledge belonging  to  the  single  disciplines  continued  to  increase 
to  such  an  extent  that  it  could  no  longer  be  contained  in  the 
head  of  a  single  person.  First  of  all,  the  sciences  relating  to 
the  regulation  of  human  affairs  and  those  having  to  do  with 
the  healing  of  human  diseases  were  isolated,  and  they  at- 
tained to  self-administration.  This  produced  the  law  and 
medical  faculties.  This  process  continued  to  be  repeated 
under  most  varied  forms,  and  we  may  see  down  to  the  pres- 
ent day  how  new  sciences  have  detached  themselves  from  the 
joint  association  in  which  they  and  other  sciences  have  been 
included,  and  demonstrated  their  independence  by  providing 
their  own  chairs,  texts,  and  curricula.  This  formation  of 
new  sciences  has  recently  become  so  common  and  so  varied 
that  for  a  long  while  the  universities  have  not  seen  their  way 
clear  toward  providing  each  and  all  of  them  with  opportuni- 
ties for  development.  Hence  there  has  come  about  a  sort  of 
division  of  labor  between  the  different  institutions  in  such  a 
way  that  this  or  that  special  discipline  is  cultivated  predomi- 
nantly and  with  particular  zeal  in  one  institution,  and  other 
new  disciplines  in  another.  This  does  not  depend  in  general 
upon  systematic  causes,  but  rather  upon  purely  personal  rea- 
sons. Whenever  there  is  a  gifted  representative  of  a  new 
discipline  who  is  an  excellent  teacher  and  at  the  same  time 
scientifically  productive,  he  will  be  able  sooner  or  later  to 
acquire  the  means  and  influence  to  develop  this  new  discipline 
into  a  recognized  science.  By  surrounding  himself  with  a 
circle  of  students  suited  to  his  purpose  he  sees  to  it  that  the 
local  influence  which  he  exercises  in  his  home  university 

1:7803 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

spreads  within  a  few  years  over  the  entire  civilized  world, 
from  which  he  draws  his  students  and  to  which  they  return 
again  after  having  imbibed  the  new  ideas  and  new  methods. 
However  gratifying  the  process  may  be  in  a  given  case,  it 
is  impossible  to  look  upon  it  as  the  Ideal  solution  of  the  prob- 
lem In  the  general  development  of  sciences.  For  by  the  side 
of  the  fortunate  ones  who  at  the  place  where  they  were  acci- 
dentally situated  succeeded  in  acquiring  the  necessary  means 
for  developing  their  new  ideas  and  rendering  them  effective, 
there  are  many  with  whom  things  do  not  go  so  well.  Those 
of  us  who  are  more  intimately  acquainted  with  institutions  of 
higher  learning,  be  It  In  Germany,  England,  France,  or  the 
United  States,  will  recall  those  personalities  who  upon  closer 
acquaintance  revealed  an  astonishing  store  of  new  Ideas  and 
far-reaching  plans,  but  who  had  not  succeeded  In  gaining 
sympathy  at  the  hands  of  the  proper  authorities  for  these 
Ideas  and  plans,  and  who  therefore  were  forced  to  exhaust 
themselves  in  unfruitful  attempts  to  develop  them  and  make 
their  value  felt.  At  all  events,  our  institutions  everywhere 
lack  at  present  an  arrangement  for  organization  by  means 
of  which  progress  of  this  kind  in  all  departments  of  science 
may  be  wisely  encouraged  and  developed.  As  a  result  of 
this  lack  of  organization  science  does  not  progress  like  a 
group  of  well-regulated  workmen,  cultivating  a  wilderness 
with  new  expedients  and  methods,  putting  it  Into  proper 
condition  for  the  proposed  work  of  civilization,  but  advances 
rather  like  the  bold  individuals  who  moved  toward  the  West 
In  the  early  history  of  the  United  States,  one  settling  here, 
another  there,  wherever  accident  or  Inclination  led  them,  and 
where  the  character  of  the  region  or  climate  appealed  to 
each  one,  leading  a  highly  individual  and  peculiar  life  In  the 
midst  of  manifold  diflicultles  and  dangers,  paying  little  heed 
to  what  had  been  their  connection  with  their  homeland  and 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Its  civilization,  for  the  extension  of  which  they  had  under- 
taken  their  daring  expeditions.  In  other  words,  we  must 
give  up  the  accidental  development  of  science  hitherto  exist- 
ing, which  depended  upon  where  and  how,  as  occasion  of- 
fered, the  new  disciplines  came  to  light  and  found  suitable 
soil  for  their  growth,  and  substitute  for  it  an  entirely  reason- 
able, systematic,  and  carefully  considered  type  by  means  of 
which  we  may  render  the  new  soil  productive  for  science. 
Thus  we  may  organize  our  progress  so  regularly  and  sys- 
tematically that  it  will  march  steadily  forward  and  bring 
about  a  gradual  improvement  that  is  in  keeping  with  the 
present  condition  of  existing  knowledge  and  adapted  to  the 
most  pressing  and  immediate  needs  of  future  knowledge. 

For  this  purpose  it  is  absolutely  necessary,  in  the  first 
place,  that  we  recognize  exactly  and  clearly  the  legitimate 
relations  which  exist  between  the  individual  sciences,  so  that 
we  may  no  longer  be  dependent  upon  accident  for  their  ad- 
vancement, but  rather  that  by  means  of  this  conformability 
to  certain  laws  we  can  indicate,  and  will  have  to  do  so  with 
more  or  less  precision,  not  only  in  which  direction  science 
must  be  extended,  but  also  what,  approximately,  will  be  the 
character  of  the  anticipated  extensions. 

If  one  were  to  inquire  in  what  manner  the  problems  aris- 
ing here  could  be  solved,  the  reply  at  hand  would  be  that  we 
must  take  from  the  previous  historic  development  of  science 
those  determining  facts  which  would  serve  as  a  criterion  for 
the  future  development  of  science.  In  fact,  we  shall  be  con- 
vinced farther  on  that  the  fundamental  ideas  for  the  devel- 
opment of  science  at  which  we  shall  arrive  are  to  be  noted  in 
the  history  of  the  formation  of  the  various  branches  of 
knowledge.  But  an  historical  phenomenon  is  such  a  varied 
and  complicated  affair,  however,  that  while  those  portions 
of  it  which  conform  to  existing  laws  may  be  recognized  when 

C7B2] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

the  light  of  systematic  knowledge  is  projected  upon  their 
differences,  yet  without  such  a  guide  recognition  of  what  is 
authoritative  by  the  mere  observation  of  things  heretofore 
existing  appears  rather  hopeless.  For,  to  begin  with,  one 
must  of  course  convince  himself  that  a  number  of  accidental 
factors  have  encroached  upon  the  development  of  science, 
particularly  that  all  the  sciences  have  sprung  from  the  neces- 
sities of  the  hour  and  therefore  have  not  been  determined  at 
their  origin  so  much  by  systematic  or  general  points  of  view 
as  by  the  more  or  less  urgent  nature  of  the  necessity  and  of 
the  possibility  of  meeting  it  immediately  or  In  the  future— a 
possibility  depending,  to  be  sure,  upon  a  variety  of  unfore- 
seen circumstances. 

If  we  examine  in  this  sense  the  four  traditional  faculties, 
we  recognize  in  the  first  three  applied  sciences.  The  first 
faculty— the  theological— has  to  do  with  the  content  and 
form  of  religious  tradition  and  of  religious  education,  and 
Is  to  this  extent  essentially  an  historical  science  which,  how- 
ever, cannot  free  Itself  to  a  certain  extent  from  development 
In  a  modern  sense.  Thus  law  Is  an  applied  science,  since  Its 
object  is  the  regulation  of  legal  relationships  between  peo- 
ple; and  its  functions  are  essentially  historical,  since  the  legal 
works  of  the  later  Roman  Empire  are  still  looked  upon  as 
the  most  Important  and  in  many  ways  the  final  source  of  law. 
The  medical  faculty  represents,  again,  an  applied  science— 
viz.,  the  technique  of  healing,  and  more  recently  the  tech- 
nique of  avoiding  human  disease.  Finally,  in  the  philosoph- 
ical faculty  all  Is  included  that  does  not  find  a  place  in  the 
three  "higher"  faculties,  and  In  It  pure  or  abstract  sciences 
are  found,  such  as  mathematics  and  history,  as  well  as  ap- 
plied sciences,  such  as  dentistry  and  pharmacy.  Thus  we 
see  that  the  historical  and  traditional  division  of  the  sciences 
as  practised  In  the  universities  is  totally  devoid  of  system, 

n783] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

and  that  the  original  purpose  of  the  universities  to  serve  as 
training  places  for  the  future  clergy  still  makes  itself  out- 
wardly felt  as  a  standard  for  classification  and  administra- 
tion at  a  time  when  the  theological  aim  has  long  since  been 
relegated  to  the  background. 

The  irregularities  and  inconsistencies,  however,  do  not 
end  with  these  matters;  for,  in  addition  to  the  three  applied 
disciplines  first  mentioned,  other  large  fields  have  been  newly 
formed  in  the  meantime— I  mention  only  the  technical  fields 
for  which  a  place  has  been  provided  in  the  universities  only 
in  a  very  incomplete  and  meager  fashion.  In  Germany, 
therefore,  the  technical  schools  have  developed  indepen- 
dently of  the  universities,  and  have  as  a  primal  object  the 
culture  of  modern  technical  applied  sciences.  By  the  side  of 
these,  quite  recently,  numerous  other  institutions  have  arisen, 
such  as  commercial  academies,  schools  for  administrative 
officials,  and  the  like,  which  emphasizes  the  fact  that  univer- 
sities, even  with  the  Inclusion  of  polytechnic  schools,  are  at 
the  present  day  no  longer  satisfying  all  the  demands  for  the 
scientific  treatment  of  important  questions  of  life  which  our 
many-sided,  prolific  age  has  evolved.  At  the  same  time  it  Is 
an  expression  of  the  fact  that  experience  has  proved  the  old 
system  of  science  in  the  universities  to  be  totally  Inadequate. 
Hence,  from  the  purely  practical  reason  that  each  nation 
must  necessarily  and  primarily  look  to  an  organization  of  its 
educational  system  that  will  be  as  complete  as  possible  and 
sufficient  for  the  future,  the  need  arises  for  utmost  clearness 
in  systematizing  science. 

From  such  an  organization  we  may  expect  a  better  em- 
ployment of  resources  existing  heretofore,  not  only  from 
the  point  of  view  that  necessary  disciplines  which  through 
accidental,  external  circumstances  have  not  yet  been  devel- 
oped will  be  taken  into  Immediate  systematic  cultivation  and 

[784] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

be  made  ready  for  their  social  functions,  but  also  from  the 
other  point  of  view  that  certain  fields  which  have  been  tradi- 
tionally regarded  as  sciences  and  have  been  correspondingly 
supported  by  the  government  and  have  consumed  the  re- 
sources belonging  to  them  will  be  shown  by  a  systematic 
examination  of  the  Idea  and  meaning  of  science  to  be  of  very 
much  less  importance  than  has  been  admitted  in  the  past. 
Thus  we  shall  be  able  to  free  the  present  development  of 
science  from  many  narrow  conceptions  and  trammels  that 
have  consumed  the  means,  everywhere  limited  enough  at 
best,  for  things  whose  social  Importance  does  not  justify  the 
employment  of  resources  that  have  been  raised  for  purposes 
of  social  betterment. 

In  a  word,  the  problem  is  to  replace  the  former  disjointed 
and  accidental  development  of  sciences  with  an  organized 
and  systematized  one.  Like  every  other  department  of 
human  activity,  science  also  rose  upon  the  basis  of  develop- 
ment purely  Individual.  Those  persons  who  felt  a  special 
inclination  and  special  fitness  for  this  kind  of  work  endeav- 
ored to  form  their  external  circumstances  so  that  they  could 
carry  on  scientific  work  without  coming  too  seriously  into 
conflict  with  the  requirements  of  life.  And  the  general  pub- 
lic, though  it  at  first  received  the  results  of  such  disinterested 
work  slowly  and  not  without  a  certain  amount  of  question- 
ing, especially  on  the  part  of  a  church  unfavorably  disposed 
toward  science,  has  more  recently  accepted  them  with  In- 
creasing willingness  and  gratitude.  We  are  now  just  begin- 
ning to  emerge  from  this  period  of  accidental  scientific 
development.  Numerous  scientific  Institutions  that  were 
equipped  hitherto  chiefly  for  the  purpose  of  Instruction  have 
begun  very  recently  to  develop  exclusively  with  a  view  to  the 
advancement  of  science,  uninfluenced  by  any  side  Interests, 
and  thus  In  a  most  far-reaching  way  have  assured  the  cultl- 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

vatlon  and  dissemination  of  science  in  all  civilized  lands. 
Therefore  in  our  day  the  question  of  national  systematiza- 
tion  of  all  science  makes  itself  felt  with  special  emphasis  in 
order  that  its  development  may  be  organized— f.^.,  may  be 
subjected  to  thorough,  wise,  and  judicious  control. 

For  what  is  organization?    What  is  the  meaning  of  this 
process  that  has  proved  to  be  of  fundamental  importance  in 
all  departments  of  our  present  social  life?  The  word  relates 
to  the  existence  of  the  characteristic  desired  in  living  beings, 
in  organisms,  and  it  is  among  them,  in  fact,  that  we  find  the 
principles  in  question  put  into  practice  and  their  existence 
long  recognized.    We  know  that  a  living  creature  is  all  the 
more  perfect  in  proportion  to  its  having  been  able  to  develop 
proper  organs  for  the  varied  functions  peculiar  to  its  exist- 
ence, and  in  proportion  to  its  assuring  more  completely  the 
common   and  organized  co-operation  of  these   organs  by 
means  of  a  central  nervous  system.     In  connection  with  all 
organization  there  come  into  question  two  related  yet  dis- 
tinct operations:  on  the  one  hand,  a  division  of  functions 
and  their  apportionment  to  special  organs  for  the  purpose 
of  having  each  single  function  all  the  more  perfectly  carried 
out  by  the  particular  organ  formed  for  it,  and  secondly,  a 
co-ordination  of  these  single  distributed  functions  In  the 
interest  of  their  common  service  in  such  a  way  that  each 
single  organ  carries  out  its  activities,  in  point  of  space  as  well 
as  of  time,  so  that  it  thereby  produces  the  greatest  gain  for 
the  whole  organism.  Therefore  the  distribution  of  functions 
and  the  combination  of  functions  are  the  very  essence  of 
organization,  and  so  we  shall  not  be  able  to  organize  science 
otherwise  than  by  separating  its  functions  and  then  by  reunit- 
ing them  In  collective  efficiency. 

A   suitable   division   of   functions   implies,   moreover,    a 
knowledge  of  the  separate  functions—/.^.,  it  presupposes  a 

1:7863 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

general  survey  of  the  total  range  of  the  sciences,  and  de- 
mands therefore  a  system  of  them,  and  this  is  shown  to  be 
the  great  practical  problem  that  must  be  solved  if  we  are  to 
organize  scientific  progress  logically. 

One  occasionally  hears  the  objection  raised  that  an  or- 
ganization of  the  sciences  is  not  to  be  thought  of,  for  the 
reason  that  science  is  the  highest  manifestation  of  spon- 
taneous mental  activity,  and  therefore  is  to  be  gratefully 
received,  but  should  not  be  consciously  and  systematically 
directed  toward  definite  problems  and  fields  of  work.    Such 
an  objection  is  not  justified,  for  the  reason  that  all  human 
progress  in  all  departments  rests  upon  the  fact  that  those 
things  which  have  occurred  heretofore  unexpectedly  and  by 
chance  are  transformed  into  a  systematized  harvest  in  the 
field  of  human  activity  through  our  recognition  of  relation- 
ships established  by  law.     Such  an  objection  in  the  face  of 
science  has  still  less  justification  for  the  reason  that  science 
in  its  very  essence  rests,  as  we  well  know,  upon  the  sys- 
tematic,   logical,    and    rational   ordering   of   single    facts. 
Therefore,  only  a  very  undeveloped  condition  of  science  as  a 
whole  is  indicated  if  it  has  not  yet  learned  to  apply  to  itself 
this  process  of  ordering  of  which  it  has  always  made  use  as  a 
fundamental  principle  in  connection  with  its  own  subjects  of 
study.     Thus  we  see  that  the  ordering  of  facts  and  their 
relationships  in  each  individual  science  is  the  first  and  most 
important  function  in  its  development.    A  discoverer  of  new 
facts  may  not  content  himself  with  simply  imparting  these 
facts  to  the  world  at  large,  but  only  after  having  recognized 
and  fixed  them  does  there  then  arise  for  him  the  new,  great, 
essentially  scientific  duty  of  demonstrating  the  relationship 
borne  by  these  new  facts  to  the  existing  condition  of  know- 
ledge in  a  particular  field,  and  of  thus  rendering  them  real, 
organic  component  parts  of  the  entire  science  in  question. 

D87] 


i! 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

An  ordering  process  of  this  kind  in  each  particular  science 
has  always  been  the  principle  of  all  progress,  and  the  fact 
that  great  fields  of  possible  knowledge  have  already  been 
mastered  by  man  and  brought  into  natural  relationship  pos- 
tulates the  possibility  (contemporaneously  with  the  need  felt 
for  it)  of  our  beginning  to  attempt  the  solution  of  the  great- 
est problem  of  this  kind.  We  are  therefore  confronted  by 
the  task  of  subjecting  the  whole  range  of  science  to  the  same 
organizing  and  systematizing  process  which  has  been  carried 
out  so  successfully  in  single  sciences,  to  the  advantage  of 
society  as  a  whole. 

Let  us  now,  with  the  help  of  historic  facts,  endeavor  to 
come  to  a  clear  understanding  of  the  leading  features  of 
scientific  development  in  order  to  arrive  at  certain  funda- 
mental ideas  by  means  of  which,  independently  of  accidental 
happenings  in  the  zigzag  progress  of  historic  development, 
we  may  extend  the  facts  which  have  been  discovered  into  an 
actual  system  of  science.  We  recognize  three  chief  phe- 
nomena in  the  history  of  science,  which  we  shall  discuss  in 
their  proper  order,  that  we  may  derive  from  them  those  fun- 
damental notions  for  our  system  which  they  enable  us  to 
reach.  We  have  already  called  attention  to  the  first  of  these 
facts,  that  all  the  sciences  gradually  separate  from  some  cen- 
tral or  general  form  of  knowledge  which  at  the  dawn  of 
history  was  everywhere  In  the  hands  of  certain  persons 
whom  we  usually  term  priests,  but  who  are  to  be  regarded 
more  properly  as  the  representatives  of  the  entire  know- 
ledge of  their  time.  Now  that  which  above  all  else  in  the 
early  course  of  historic  development  was  concentrated  In  the 
hands  of  the  priesthood  was  the  guardianship  of  the  super- 
natural relationship  through  which  man  Imagines  himself  to 
be  connected  with  the  unseen  powers,  and  the  separation  of 
It  from  those  fields  of  knowledge  which  appear  to  him  to  be 

[788] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

natural  relationships.  These  latter  are  those  things  which 
arc  subject  to  the  law  of  causality,  in  connection  with  which 
one  is  accordingly  able  to  recognize  the  conditions  which 
must  be  fulfilled  In  order  that  the  phenomena  may  be  pro- 
duced, and  may  be  able  to  control  more  or  less  the  course  of 
these  phenomena.  This  process  of  development  is  going  on 
continually,  and  is  far  from  being  completely  terminated  in 
our  own  day.  We  may  say,  however,  that  on  general  prin- 
ciples we  do  not  recognize  within  the  entire  range  of  science 
any  field  of  supernatural  phenomena;  that,  on  the  contrary, 
we  are  convinced  that  every  phenomenon  that  can  form  in 
any  way  the  content  of  human  experience  may  be  compre- 
hended in  its  logical  relationship  to  other  phenomena,  and 
may  be  co-ordinated  thereby  In  the  total  fund  of  human 
knowledge.  In  contradistinction  to  the  earliest  and  rudest 
conceptions  connected  with  the  belief  In  spirits  and  ghosts, 
this  Idea  of  the  existence  of  a  field  beyond  the  reach  of  sci- 
ence has  disappeared  more  and  more  rapidly  from  our  men- 
tal life;  and  it  may  now  be  said,  without  prejudice  to  any 
person's  individual  attitude  regarding  the  religious  views  of 
our  day,  that  all  fields  of  human  experience  are  subject  to 
scientific  treatment;  that  therefore  the  Idea  of  natural  law  is 
everywhere  applicable;  and  that,  under  like  circumstances, 
like  consistency  In  resultant  phenomena  may  always  be  ex- 
pected. 

The  second  point  which  an  examination  of  historic  devel- 
opment enables  us  to  recognize  is  that  the  pure  and  abstract 
sciences  grow  by  degrees  out  of  the  applied  sciences.  We 
have  seen  already  that  originally  all  mental  activity  was 
united  In  a  totality  of  knowledge  administered  by  the  priest- 
hood; or,  more  exactly,  that  in  the  hands  of  the  priesthood 
only  that  kind  of  knowledge  was  formed  which  was  not  the 
common  property  of  all  adult  citizens,  and  which  was  there- 

1:7893 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

fore  used  only  on  special  occasions.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
kind  of  knowledge  necessary  for  the  accomplishment  of  the 
tasks  of  daily  life,  of  procuring  booty,  of  combating  enemies, 
of  cultivating  the  soil  and  acquiring  the  necessary  products 
for  clothing,  food,  and  shelter,  could  not  be  confined,  of 
course,  to  the  administration  of  a  few  persons,  but  was  the 
common  possession  of  all,  and  was  apportioned  from  father 
to  son  with  correspondingly  slow  increase,  and  from  one 
member  of  the  community  to  another.  We  know  that  just 
at  this  point  a  division  of  functions  took  place,  just  as  we 
have  seen  in  the  case  of  the  distinct  kinds  of  knowledge 
which  were  administered  by  special  classes  of  people.  While 
in  the  original  forms  of  social  activity  each  person  exercised 
all  the  functions  necessary  for  life  and  maintenance,  it  sub- 
sequently came  about,  at  first  slowly  but  later  in  increasing 
measure,  that  the  technique  of  division  and  combination  of 
functions— in  a  word,  the  organization  of  management- 
caused  certain  functions  demanding  special  skill— for  exam- 
ple, blacksmithing— to  separate  and  attain  to  their  own 
degree  of  technical  advancement,  with  their  own  traditions. 
With  increasing  cultural  development,  knowledge  became 
here,  too,  increasingly  diversified  and  richer,  and  the  divi- 
sion of  functions  proceeded  farther  and  farther. 

All  of  these  fields  of  knowledge,  however,  were  only  ap- 
plied sciences,  and  quite  an  extensive  special  development 
inside  the  applied  sciences  was  necessary  before  there  were 
formed  in  certain  advanced  members  of  the  human  race  new 
activities  by  which  knowledge  for  its  own  sake,  without  any 
immediate  reference  to  any  application  of  it,  came  to  be 
regarded  as  a  vocation  and  aim  in  life. 

European  civilization  began  in  this  respect  with  an  un- 
usually rapid  and  brilliant  development  among  the  Greeks. 
There,  owing  to  previous  economic  development  and  to  the 

1:7903 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

formation  of  a  small  group  of  well-to-do  men  whose  wealth 
was  based  on  an  extensive  slavery,  there  arose  men  with 
sufficient  leisure  to  direct  their  vision  beyond  the  mere  neces- 
sities of  the  day  to  more  general  problems  and  discussions. 
So  we  see  that  the  early  beginnings  of  pure  science  took  the 
form  of  philosophic  systems— in  the  first  place,  that  of  the 
Ionian  natural  philosophers.  It  was  no  longer  a  question 
of  how  one  might  satisfy  the  needs  of  the  day  more  easily 
and  to  better  purpose,  but  rather,  since  the  needs  of  the  hour 
no  longer  occupied  these  men,  problems  were  sought  in  more 

distant  fields. 

Thanks  to  a  well-known  peculiarity  of  the  human  mind, 
the  range  of  problems  envisaged  by  them  soon  became  ex- 
tended to  the  utmost  limits.    Questions  relating  to  the  origin 
of  the  world,  the  manner  and  means  by  which  living  beings 
might  have  come  into  the  world,  and,  after  these,  questions 
concerning  the  purpose  and  aim  of  human  life,  were  the  ones 
that  busied  these  first  thinkers.    At  the  same  time  we  notice 
that  the  pleasure  of  making  use  of  this  new  organ  of  human 
activity— the  capacity  for  reflection— soon  led  to  extensive 
exaggerations  in  its  use.  Instead  of  supplementing  in  proper 
sequence  the  answer  to  questions  relating  to  immediate  sur- 
roundings, both  as  regards  time  and  space,  with  solving  more 
distant  problems  from  remoter  times  and  space,  they  ven- 
tured  upon  the  remotest  Imaginable  confines  of  time  and 
space.     It  was  only  natural  that  these  first  activities  of  the 
newly  developed  thinking  faculty  In  man  should  soon  go 
astray  in  these  distant  and  uncertain  regions.    A  hard  and 
long  training  was  necessary  before  mankind  learned  that  the 
newly  grown  wings  could  not,  after  all,  bear  them  beyond 
the  atmosphere  of  the  earth,  and  that  the  first  bold  and  Il- 
logical flights  into  unbounded  space  could  only  lead  to  the 
miscarriage  of  such  impossible  undertakings. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

So  we  see  how  Greek  philosophy  turns  back  more  and 
more  from  the  excesses  and  capricious  Ideas  of  Its  early  days 
to  the  realities  of  life  and  to  an  analysis  of  the  capabilities 
of  the  human  mind.  We  have  received,  unfortunately,  only 
a  very  Incomplete  and  highly  one-sided  and  biased  account  of 
those  days.  Nevertheless  It  can  be  seen  from  these  few 
literary  remains  that  the  Greeks  had  already  entered  upon 
a  course  which  approached  quite  nearly  to  the  modern  devel- 
opment of  the  sciences,  but  which  for  that  very  reason  was 
In  complete  contrast  with  the  older  traditions.  This  was  the 
school  of  the  Sophists,  which  demonstrated  by  Its  activity  the 
inadequacy  and  complete  Inaccuracy  of  the  first  endeavors  of 
youthful  thought,  and  which,  very  logically,  was  accustomed 
to  emphasize  experience  as  the  only  reliable  source  of  all 
human  knowledge.  These  first  germinations  of  scientific 
activity  among  the  Greeks  were  in  large  measure  repressed 
and  destroyed  by  the  great  political  upheavals  which  began 
some  two  thousand  years  ago. 

Only  a  very  small  part  of  this  mental  stimulus  was  assimi- 
lated by  the  Romans  and  rendered  fruitful  of  good;  only  a 
slender  thread  of  tradition  leads  from  those  days,  by  way  of 
Arabian  translators  and  commentators,  to  the  beginning 
of  modern  times,  when  the  peoples  of  central  Europe  who 
had  In  the  meantime  become  accessible  to  culture  began  to 
take  part  independently  In  the  cultivation  of  science  and  of 
the  reflective  qualities  of  the  human  mind.  The  restriction 
of  all  medieval  development  to  Imbibing  and  discussing  the 
traditions  of  the  Greek  philosophers  resulted  in  the  fact  that 
during  this  time  no  new  important  intellectual  productions 
were  brought  to  light.  In  the  same  manner,  the  destruction 
of  technical  culture  by  the  incursions  incident  to  the  migra- 
tions made  It  necessary  that  the  stores  of  applied  knowledge 
that  belonged  to  varied  fields  of  daily  and  social  life,  and 

1:792] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

which  were  lost  at  this  time,  be  slowly  gained  anew  while  a 
corresponding  new  technical  culture  on  the  part  of  these 
fresh  peoples  was  slowly  reformed.  All  these  preliminary 
conditions  were  so  far  developed  in  the  seventeenth  century 
that  at  that  time  a  phenomenon  could  take  place  similar  to 
the  one  that  had  occurred  among  the  Greeks  a  few  centuries 
before  the  beginning  of  our  era.  For  there  arose  again,  on 
the  basis  of  the  general  culture  attained  at  that  time,  indi- 
viduals whose  thoughts  were  turned  to  science  as  such,  and 
who,  by  systematically  collecting  what  was  known  up  to  that 
time,  put  the  human  mind  in  possession  of  a  dispropor- 
tionately far-reaching  power  for  overcoming  terrestrial  con- 
ditions. The  historical  appreciation  of  these  events  Is 
rendered  somewhat  difficult,  because  at  this  time  new 
sources  of  Greco-Roman  tradition  were  opened,  and  espe- 
cially because  the  artistic  productions  which  had  been  found 
dating  from  the  period  brought  before  the  eyes  of  modern 
artists  new  solutions  of  their  problems  that  differed  entirely 
from  those  which  they  had  found  previously  in  the  course 
of  their  natural  development. 

This  rehabilitation  of  Greco-Roman  art  in  sculpture  and 
architecture,  as  well  as  in  poetry,  is  what  one  consistently 
terms  renaissance.  The  learning,  however,  which  developed 
in  the  province  of  mathematics  and  physics  cannot  be  counted 
as  a  part  of  the  renaissance  movement.  This  development 
has  in  common  with  the  former  only  the  factor  of  time;  it 
stood,  however,  in  entirely  conscious  contradiction  to  re- 
habilitated tradition.  While  the  artistic  renaissance  con- 
sisted In  taking  over  the  completed  works  of  art  of  the  past, 
as  regards  both  content  and  form,  and  holding  them  up 
as  unattainable  ideals  for  the  artistic  movements  of  the  day, 
the  new  sciences  were  in  no  wise  developed  as  a  rebirth 
of  the  sciences  of  antiquity,  but  rather  in  sharp  and  definite 

1:793] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

contrast  to  them.     It  is  characteristic  that  the  Greek  tradi- 
tions in  mathematics,  for  example,  as  contained  m  Euchd  s 
geometry,  did  not  lead  to  any  kind  of  special  development  m 
geometric  science;  that,  on  the  other  hand,  a  new  disciplme 
that  could  not  be  traced  traditionally  in  any  way  to  the 
Greeks-algebra,    and    afterwards    differential    calculus- 
opened  very  extensive  and  important  new  fields  to  mathe- 
matics, and  so,  for  the  first  time  since  those  days,  caused  new 
scientific  ideas  and  methods  to  appear  in  history  as  the  orig- 
inal product  of  the  peoples  of  central  Europe.    We  find  m 
the  same  way  that  the  fundamental  progress  in  physics,  as 
brought  about  in  the  province  of  mechanics  and  astronomy 
by  Galileo  and  Copernicus,  arose  in  conscious  and  sharp  con- 
trast to  the  traditions  of  antiquity.    In  the  truly  fundamental 
investigations  of  Galileo  concerning  the  mechanics  of  bodies 
falling  freely,  special  reference  was  made  to  the  false  and 
untenable  view  previously  held  by  force  of  tradition,  and 
which  was  based  upon  the  observations  of  Aristotle  concern- 
ing this  problem;  and  thus  in  a  thousand  other  particulars 
can  be  shown  the  position  of  conscious  contrast  which  the 
new  sciences  were  forced  to  occupy  toward  the  many  tradi- 
tions of  Greek  science. 

In  the  few  centuries  which  have  passed  since  these  begin- 
nings a  development  in  science  has  been  accomplished  which 
is  incomparably  greater  and  more  varied  than  that  attained 
in  its  first  flower  among  the  Greeks.  And,  judging  from  the 
progress  which  this  highest  attainment  of  the  human  mind 
has  made,  one  may  prophesy  with  certainty  that  the  extraor- 
dinary  development  which  has  taken  place  down  to  the  pres- 
ent time  will  be  only  the  small  beginning  of  incomparably 
greater  further  development,  and  that  this  science  which,  in 
the  two  or  three  centuries  that  it  has  been  under  the  control 
of  mankind,  has  already  accomplished  so  very  much  in  the 

D94] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

transformation  and  betterment  of  our  life,  will  exhibit  a 
much  greater  and  more  important  range  of  activity  still, 
both  in  the  near  and  in  the  more  distant  future. 

If  we  ask  what  this  development  means  for  us  in  respect 
to  our  chief  problem— the  system  of  the  sciences— we  cannot 
fail  in  general  to  recognize  that  an  absolutely  definite  se- 
quence can  be  shown  in  which  the  various  scientific  disciplines 
have  appeared  and  have  been  developed  into  their  first 
florescence.  The  first  real  science  which  we  received  from 
the  Greeks  was  mathematics,  especially  geometry,  and  so  we 
see  also,  on  the  occasion  of  the  new  flowering  of  science  at 
the  beginning  of  modern  times,  how  mathematics  stepped 
at  once  into  the  foreground  of  scientific  interest.  It  reached 
at  once  such  an  unusual  height  of  development  with  the  dis- 
covery of  differential  calculus  by  Leibnitz  and  Newton,  that 
all  the  performances  of  the  past  were  left  far  behind,  and  our 
present  mathematical  knowledge  still  stands  completely 
under  its  influence.  This  course  of  development  is  so  char- 
acteristic that  we  can  now  say  with  certainty  that  the  highest 
development  of  mathematical  knowledge  is  already  a  matter 
of  history.  A  wealth  of  unexpected,  new  results  and  pros- 
pects, such  as  the  development  of  differential  calculus  and 
of  its  nearly  related  disciplines  has  brought  with  it,  does  not 
now  exist  In  mathematics.  Though  year  by  year  new  prog- 
ress may  be  noted  In  this  oldest  department  of  pure  science, 
yet  at  the  present  time  it  is  merely  a  question  of  extending 
and  widening  the  fundamental  Ideas  already  existing,  and 
we  cannot  mention  a  single  mathematical  discovery  in  the 
entire  past  nineteenth  century  that  could  have  Influenced  the 
thought  of  the  age  In  a  way  that  even  approached  in  Impor- 
tance and  frultfulness  the  discovery  of  differential  calculus  a 
century  and  a  half  before. 

Following  mathematics,  astronomy— an  applied  science— 

[795] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

and  physics  were  developed.  This  development  began  with 
mechanics,  and  was  then  extended  to  the  fields  of  optics, 
heat,  and  electricity.  We  are  not  accustomed  to  recall  the 
fact  that  the  voltaic  pile,  for  example,  upon  which  the  theory 
of  the  electric  current  is  based,  was  not  discovered  until  the 
year  1800,  and  that  this  entire  field,  therefore,  which  to-day, 
under  the  guise  of  electrotechnics,  has  so  profoundly  trans- 
formed our  economic  life,  is  scarcely  more  than  a  century 
old.  Chemistry  is  even  more  recent  than  physics  in  its  va- 
rious disciplines,  and  began  its  scientific  transformation  only 
toward  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century;  in  it,  as  in  physics, 
we  may  experience  from  day  to  day  the  most  astounding  and 
unexpected  extensions  of  our  knowledge  and  views. 

A  whole  series  of  other  sciences— on  the  one  hand,  the 
biological;  on  the  other  hand,  the  so-called  mental  sciences, 
especially  language,  history,  and  finally  sociology— was  de- 
veloped in  the  course  of  the  nineteenth  century  and  formed 
into  sciences.  This  formative  process  is  far  from  termi- 
nated, for  sociology,  as  an  example,  is  still  occupied  almost 
exclusively  and  above  all  things  with  inquiring  upon  what 
fundamental  ideas  its  claims  to  being  an  independent  science 

rest. 

In  this  short  review  of  the  total  development  of  science 
we  can  already  see  something  like  a  system.  We  can  say 
that  mathematics  and  mechanics  are  about  the  simplest  that 
we  are  able  to  discover  In  the  whole  variegated  gathering  of 
present  knowledge,  and  that  the  sciences  which  appeared 
later,  as  of  course  was  necessary  psychologically,  made  their 
appearance  later  in  proportion  as  their  problems  became 
increasingly  more  complicated.  Unquestionably  the  prob- 
lems of  sociology,  which  has  to  do  with  the  whole  devel- 
opment of  human  culture,  are  disproportionately  more 
complicated  than,  for  example,  the  problems  of  chemistry, 

[7963 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

which  have  to  do  with  the  reactions  of  objects  without  life 
and  under  uniform  conditions. 

We  may  derive,  then,  from  these  observations  the  three 
following  facts.  First,  that  we  shall  renounce  in  any  scien- 
tific system  the  consideration  of  all  supernatural  relation- 
ships, of  whatever  nature,  and  that,  on  the  other  hand,  from 
the  very  nature  of  things  we  shall  extend  our  scientific  prob- 
lems to  each  and  every  field  of  human  experience;  secondly, 
that  we  must  differentiate  carefully  between  applied  and 
pure  (or  free  or  theoretical)  sciences,  and  in  doing  so  we 
shall  find  the  accidents  of  life  and  of  origin  principally  in  the 
sphere  of  applied  sciences,  whereas  we  shall  look  for  theo- 
retical and  methodological  relationships  wholly  in  the  pure 
sciences;  and,  thirdly  and  finally,  that  the  general  historical 
development  of  science  also  places  at  our  disposal  a  clue  for 
the  systematic  envisagement  of  all  science  by  reason  of  the 
fact  that  from  among  the  individual  scientific  disciplines  the 
simplest  arose  and  were  developed  first,  and  that.  In  propor- 
tion as  the  reliability  of  the  human  mind  in  mental  opera- 
tions was  developed,  the  more  complicated  and  diversified 
fields  of  experience  were  gradually  submitted  to  science.  We 
shall  have  occasion  to  subject  to  careful  examination  this  last 
thought,  especially  regarding  the  increasing  multiplicity  of 
scientific  subjects,  since  in  this  field  we  may  expect  first  of  all 
to  find  the  solution  of  the  problem  regarding  the  rational 
systematlzation  of  all  the  sciences. 

In  order  to  find  this  general  principle  that  has  been  sought, 
we  shall  first  have  to  meet  and  answer  the  question.  What  is 
the  general  characteristic,  the  real  essence,  of  science?  It  is 
evident  that  for  the  division  of  all  science,  only  that  pecu- 
liarity of  it  can  be  serviceable  and  effective  which  occurs  to 
the  same  degree  In  each  science,  and  which,  therefore,  is 
common  to  all.     We  may  discover  this  common  constituent 

[:797n 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

part  all  the  more  readily  If  we  call  to  mind  the  origin  of 
each  individual  science  in  such  a  way  that  we  take  into  con- 
sideration not  the  special  content  of  knowledge,  but  rather 
the  manner  and  means  of  the  formation  of  knowledge.  Thus 
we  now  observe  that  every  individual  form  of  knowledge 
develops  into  a  science  after  having  been  cultivated  pre- 
viously as  a  technique.     The   fact  has  already  been  em- 
phasized  that  all  sciences  have  had  their  origin  in  the  needs 
and  desires  of  life.    From  the  fact  that  certain  needs  occur- 
ring  frequently  and  regularly,  such  as  those  pertaining  to 
food,  the  healing  of  the  sick,  administration,  the  building  of 
homes,  the  making  of  clothing,  etc.,  etc.,  have  been  met  regu- 
larly  from  one  generation  to  another,  there  have  been  ac- 
cumulated a  quantity  of  experiences  which  are  handed  down 
from  father  to  son,  from  master  to  apprentice,  and^  soon 
form  a  more  or  less  important  proportion  of  a  particular 
science.    This  knowledge  Indicates  In  each  case  not  only  how 
things  have  previously  come  to  pass  In  one  way  or  another, 
but  It  points  to  what  must  be  done  In  order  to  attain  to  any 
particular  future  results.    Such  a  knowledge  of  the  future  is, 
for  example,  that  In  making  bread  one  not  only  has  to  put 
the  flour  mixed  with  water  In  a  hot  oven,  but  that  one  must 
let  the  dough  stand  twenty-four  hours  or  more  beforehand, 
because  otherwise  the  bread  will  not  be  sufficiently  light.    In 
the  same  way  certain  processes  are  worked  out,  for  example, 
such  as  forging  and  hardening  Iron,  and  similar  conditions 
may  be  found  in  every  other  field  of  knowledge.     This 
means,  In  other  words,  that  every  branch  of  learmng  rests 
upon  the  knowledge  of  certain  laws  of  nature,  certain  suc- 
cessions of  phenomena,  which  are  regularly  repeated;  and 
every  technique  Is  based  upon  the  fact  that  one  determines 
the  hypotheses  or  preliminary  conditions  of  every  such  sue 
cession  of  phenomena,  so  far  as  Is  desirable  and  suitable  for 

1:798] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

the  work  In  hand,  in  order  to  bring  the  phenomena  to  a  nor- 
mal issue. 

Every  technical  branch— and  along  with  it,  to  an  even 
greater  degree,  every  science— has  as  Its  object,  therefore, 
the  attainment  of  future  happenings  by  means  of  suitable 
preparations.  It  means,  therefore,  in  the  first  place,  fore- 
seeing the  future,  hence  forming  the  future.  Both  possibil- 
ities have  their  limits.  One  can  foresee  the  future  only  in 
part  and  for  a  relatively  short  duration  of  time,  and  one 
cannot  prevent  many  approaching  events,  even  when  it  may 
be  desirable  to  do  so,  because  the  means  for  altering  future 
occurrences  are  more  circumscribed  than  those  for  foresee- 
ing them.  But,  nevertheless,  the  number  of  things  which 
may  be  foreseen  and  influenced  is  continually  increasing  in 
proportion  as  knowledge,  and  therefore  in  proportion  as 
science,  reaches  farther. 

All  prognostications  of  this  kind  depend  for  their  part 
upon  the  circumstance  that  certain  groups  of  phenomena 
always  occur  conjointly.    The  groups  may  not  be  connected 
as  regards  time;  in  such  cases  It  is  a  question  of  objects,  or 
subjects,  of  our  experience  such  as  are  included  In  the  nouns 
^'horse,"  ''stone,"  *'fire,"  "sky,"  etc.    Each  of  these  words 
indicates  a  definite  accumulation  of  experiences,  repeatedly 
gone  through  with,  which  have  the  special  characteristic 
that  as  regards  time  they  are  always  to  be  observed  con- 
nectedly.     These    peculiarities    that    are    observed    coinci- 
dently  are  called  the  characteristics  of  that  particular  thing, 
and  the  technical  as  well  as  scientific  knowledge  of  this  thing 
is  all  the  better  and  more  developed  in  proportion  as  char- 
acteristics and  relationships  are  better  known.     The  most 
frequent  and  best  known  of  these  kinds  of  groups  are  given 
definite  names,  as  we  have  just  seen.     Those  which  are  less 
well  known  and  which  have  been  investigated  only  In  the 

[:799  3 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

course  of  conscious  endeavor  are  expressed  more  commonly 
through  rules  and  natural  laws.  However,  in  both  cases  it 
is  a  question  of  the  relationships  of  definite  single  happen- 
ings or  single  characteristics;  and  prognostication  depends  in 
any  case  upon  the  fact  that,  after  taking  cognizance  of  some 
few  of  these  characteristics,  one  finds  himself  in  a  position 
to  predict  the  others  also.  Thus  the  primitive  huntsman, 
for  example,  contents  himself  with  the  optical  picture  of 
game  well  known  to  him  in  order  to  set  out  at  once  to  pursue 
or  kill  it,  though  he  has  not  been  able  to  discover  from  ex- 
perience that  it  can  be  killed  and  transformed  into  food. 
Since,  however,  this  experience  has  been  met  with  in  connec- 
tion with  similar  things  on  previous  occasions,  he  dares 
prophesy  that  it  will  also  be  so  in  this  case;  and  this  prog- 
nostication, therefore,  is  sufficiently  certain  for  him  to  ex- 
pend trouble  and  labor  upon  the  killing  of  the  game.  In  a 
somewhat  more  advanced  period  of  cultural  development 
this  ability  to  foresee  events  is  even  extended  considerably 
further,  in  that  man  intrusts  seeds  to  the  earth  with  the  fore- 
knowledge that  in  proper  time  they  will  grow,  that  the  re- 
sulting plants  will  bear  fruit  of  like  structure  and  in  such 
quantity  that  the  measure  of  grains  used  in  sowing  will  be 
abundantly  replaced. 

In  this  manner  one  can  work  at  will  through  the  whole 
range  of  human  activities  and  knowledge,  and  the  general 
fact  will  always  be  encountered  that  all  conscious  perform- 
ance rests  upon  a  knowledge  of  the  regular  temporal  rela- 
tionship between  different  experiences  which  recur  in  the 
same  way.  Thus  all  knowledge  consists  in  group-memories 
by  means  of  which  certain  definite  amounts  of  experiences, 
happening  simultaneously  or  in  sequence,  are  included  from 
time  to  time.  Through  the  general  psychophysical  nature 
of  all  living  beings,  repeated  experiences  affect  the  individual 

[800] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

experiencing  them  otherwise  than  do  single  or  varying  ones. 
They  become  possessed  of  a  special  characteristic  which,  in 
connection  with  conscious  living  beings,  we  term  remem- 
brance or  acquaintance.  Upon  this  recollection  of  regularly 
recurring  associations,  or  our  acquaintance  with  them,  de- 
pends our  power,  at  first  more  instinctive,  later  more  con- 
scious, of  foreseeing  and  anticipating  future  events.  Such 
associations  we  may  comprehend  under  the  general  term  of 
concepts,  in  connection  with  which  It  is  well  to  repeat  em- 
phatically that  natural  laws  are  also  to  be  classed  under 
concepts;  for  they  represent  relationships,  just  as  the  ideas 
"horse"  and  "stone"  represent  associations  of  definite  occur- 
rences that  may  be  experienced,  or  characteristics  connected 
with  the  object  in  question. 

Such  a  formation  of  ideas  has  a  purely  technical  character 
at  the  beginning— i.^.,  only  concepts  impress  themselves  in 
the  consciousness  of  primitive  man  by  repetition  and  a  corre- 
sponding awakening  of  interest  as  relates  to  experiences 
which  are  important  to  him  for  his  existence.  He  could  form 
for  himself,  for  example,  ideas  or  experiences  concerning  the 
many  thousand  plants  which  he  has  the  opportunity  of 
observing  daily.  He  confines  himself,  however,  to  those 
plants  from  which  he  derives  a  special  advantage  or  harm, 
and  avoids  the  forming  of  Ideas  concerning  less  urgent 
objects,  for  the  reason  that  they  have  no  known  importance 
to  him,  and  because  for  that  reason  he  shuns  the  efforts  (and 
evidently  they  must  have  been  very  great  in  the  case  of 
primitive  man)  necessary  for  such  a  formation  of  ideas. 
One  may  observe  this  condition  of  mind  In  all  possible  grada- 
tions among  races  which  are  but  slightly  developed,  whose 
characteristics  and  psyche  have  become  well  known  to  us  in 
recent  time,  thanks  to  the  many  anthropological  investiga- 
tions.   We  may  thus  observe  all  the  stages,  from  the  most 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

circumscribed  formation  of  ideas,  which  extend  only  to  the 
most  urgent  necessities  of  life,  up  to  the  very  highest  devel- 
opment in  this  sphere,  such  as  may  be  found  in  the  mind 
of  the  modern  investigator,  discoverer,  or  organizer. 

These  considerations  now  lead  us  to  establish  the  essential 
difference  between  technique  and  science,  or,  as  one  may 
more  properly  express  it,  between  applied  and  pure  science. 
Technical    knowledge,    from    its    very    origin,    gravitates 
around  certain  necessary  or  desired  things,  and  all  know- 
ledge is  created  and  collected  in  respect  to  the  accomplish- 
ment of  the  task  that  underlies  this  relationship.    Whenever 
a  technique  is  followed,  however,  for  a  considerable  length 
of  time,  and  is  developed  to  even  greater  completeness,  it 
always  happens  that  new  circumstances  arise  from  time  to 
time  which  cannot  be  controlled  by  existing  knowledge,  but 
which  demand  rather  the  acquisition  of  new  knowledge. 
The  more  varied  the  knowledge  as  regards  the  events  which 
occur  more  infrequently  is,  the  more  experienced,  the  better 
informed,  the  wiser  the  person  in  question  is.    The  necessity 
of  being  prepared  for  unforeseen  cases  causes  finally  a  cer- 
tain inclination  of  mind  in  accordance  with  which,  even  with- 
out any  thought  of  a  particular  task's  lying  just  before  one, 
a  condition  of  preparedness  for  all  possible  problems  ap- 
pears to  be  a  desirable  state.     Accordingly,  one  will  strive 
not  only  to  become  acquainted  with  the  material  employed 
by  the  technique  in  question  with  reference  to  its  immediate 
application,  but  one  will  endeavor  to  investigate  it  from  so 
many  sides  and  so  variously  that  the  future  occurrences  in 
that  technique  may,  in  so  far  as  is  possible,  offer  no  further 
surprises  of  any  kind.    It  should  not  be  stated  that  this  train 
of  thoughts  is  the  only  one  which  has  led  from  technique  to 
science.    But,  so  far  as  we  can  historically  see  from  the  state- 
ments of  those  who  have  created  a  science  out  of  technique, 

1:802] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

this  general  impulse  to  know  more  than  the  needs  of  the 
hour  require,  and  to  be  prepared  for  all  eventualities,  has 
been,  after  all,  a  prime  motive  power  everywhere  for  the 
carrying  out  of  research  work. 

Since  the  necessities  of  life  are  always  transformed,  ac- 
cording to  the  well-known  laws  of  natural  selection,  into 
activities  which  promote  happiness,  because  the  beings  that 
gladly  and  readily  perform  the  necessary  thing  are,  in  the 
struggle  for  existence,  especially  preferred  as  compared  with 
others,  it  is  also  to  be  expected  that  the  necessity  for  logically 
controlling  phenomena  becomes  by  degrees  a  passion  for 
knowledge.  This  passion  for  knowledge  is  a  variation  of 
the  racial  type,  the  origin  of  which  is  therefore  to  be  ex- 
pected only  in  a  very  few  extraordinary  individuals.  And  so 
history  teaches  us  that  the  investigator,  the  man  who,  inde- 
pendently of  any  technical  application,  though  possibly  in- 
cited by  it,  feels  the  general  impulse  to  extend  his  knowledge 
and  to  shape  it  into  greater  effectiveness  by  a  process  of  ra- 
tional comprehension,  was  originally  a  sporadic  phenome- 
non. It  is  to  so  small  a  degree  a  question  of  professional 
investigation,  that  in  the  case  of  the  first  investigators  in 
each  special  department  we  cannot  help  observing  just  about 
the  opposite.  Those  who  content  themselves  with  handing 
down  existing  knowledge  look  upon  every  extension  and 
renovation  of  intellectual  materials  as  a  wrong  done  their 
efforts,  and  take  a  most  energetic  stand  in  opposition  to  any 
possible  change  in  pre-existing  functions.  So  these  greatest 
and  most  decisive  benefactors  of  mankind,  the  men  who 
have  endeavored  to  transform  the  short-sighted  technique 
of  their  day  into  a  correspondingly  more  far-sighted  science, 
have  almost  always  been  persecuted  and  oppressed.  And 
though  investigative  activity  in  our  day  is  no  longer  fraught 
with  danger  to  life  as  it  was  three  or  four  centuries  ago,  and 

1:803:] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

though  in  our  scientific  institutions  attention  is  generously 
and  readily  given  to  carrying  out  investigations,   we   see, 
nevertheless,  that  even  in  the  twentieth  century  the  profes- 
sion of  the  investigator  as  such  is  found  only  sporadically  as 
yet.     Professional  appointments  of  this  type  exist  In  the 
form  of  research  professors  in  the  American  universities  and 
members  of  the  research  institutes  of  Germany,  and  certain 
professoriates  in  the  old  English  universities,   Cambridge 
and  Oxford,  as  well  as  a  number  of  professoriates  in  the 
Sorbonne  in  Paris.    All  the  other  positions  in  which  research 
work  is  now  being  carried  on  permit  this  work  only  as  a 
species  of  minor  office,  the  men  in  question  being  appointed 
either  as  professors  for  the  instruction  of  students  or  for 
some  other  regular  activity  which,  to  be  sure,  has  some  facti- 
tive relationship  to  their  research  work,  but  Is  quite  secon- 
dary to  it  so  far  as  their  outward  position  is  concerned.    To 
find  means  new  and  universally  applicable  by  which  research 
work  may  be   regularly  overseen   and   encouraged  by  so- 
ciety, whether  by  the  government  or  by  narrower  groups 
within  the  government,  is  a  great  task  for  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury and  for  this  institution  now  In  process  of  formation; 
the  question  of  a  logical  separation  of  instruction  and  re- 
search will  also  be  of  vital  import,  if  the  Institute  is  to  attain 
to  the  high  aim  which  its  founders  have  set  for  it.    In  other 
words,  the  relationship  between  research  and  teaching  must 
be  organized.     Each  of  the  functions  must  be  developed  to 
the  highest  possible  point  of  efficiency.    And  since  along  with 
a  division  of  functions  the  co-ordination  of  functions  is  also 
important  to  all  true  organization,  care  must  be  taken  that  a 
member  of  the  Institute  who  is  occupied  chiefly  with  research 
work  shall  have  an  Influence  upon  its  entire  intellectual  ac- 
tivities which  is  proportionate  to  the  extent  of  his  ability  and 
his  tasks. 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

We  have  seen  how  the  Greeks,  immediately  after  the  dis- 
covery of  the  enormous  power  that  comes  with  the  develop- 
ment of  ideas  and  laws,  in  the  freshness  of  their  youth  soon 
greatly  exaggerated  their  view  of  the  effectiv^eness  and  pro- 
ductiveness of  this  new  intellectual  instrument.  Instead  of 
allowing  the  formation  of  concepts  to  depend  exclusively 
upon  experience,  as  the  very  nature  of  the  matter  demands, 
the  Greeks,  as  soon  as  they  had  experienced  the  workings  of 
abstract  intellectual  activity,  attempted  to  Increase  it  to  the 
very  furthermost  limits.  Instead  of  forming  for  themselves 
conceptions  about  the  nature  of  the  earth,  about  the  laws 
governing  the  growth  of  plants  and  the  propagation  of  ani- 
mals, about  weather  and  clouds,  in  keeping  with  actual  con- 
ditions, they  soon  extended  their  speculations  to  the  most 
universal  and  unattainable  problems,  such  as  the  beginning 
and  end  of  existence,  the  nature  of  the  entire  visible  and  in- 
visible world,  and  thus  took  as  a  subject  for  their  medi- 
tations those  ultimate  characteristics  of  bodies  physically 
perceptible  which  are  far  beyond  the  confines  of  perceptibil- 
ity. Such  intoxication  in  the  use  of  this  newly  discovered 
intellectual  power  Is  readily  explicable,  but  we  must  always 
keep  before  our  minds  the  fact  that  it  is  only  a  species  of 
Intoxication  and  exaggeration  of  a  means  newly  won  with 
which  we  have  to  do,  and  we  must  not  consider  the  intellec- 
tual accomplishments  In  the  sphere  of  speculation  that  date 
from  that  youthful  period  In  man's  development  as  unassail- 
able and  unsurpassable  master-accomplishments  of  ripe  in- 
tellectuality. 

Greek  speculation  is  an  expression  of  childlike  pleasure  at 
the  new  intellectual  acquisitions.  Just  as  a  child,  after  hav- 
ing overcome  the  first  difficulties  of  speech  formation,  cannot 
repeat  and  vary  the  art  just  learned  enough,  so,  too.  In  con- 
nection with  the  Greeks  we  see  the  theoretical  or  abstract 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

thinking—/*.^.,  that  which  has  only  Its  very  earliest  origin  in 
common  with  the  necessities  of  life— developing  in  a  great 
variety  of  forms,  but  leading  only  in  rare  cases  to  a  lasting 
and  really  fundamental  result.  So  in  geometry  Greek 
thought  created  a  theoretical  or  pure  science  (probably  in 
close  conjunction  with  the  empiricism  of  the  Egyptian  sur- 
veyors), which  found  its  classic  expression  in  Euclid  and  in 
this  form  influenced  most  profoundly  the  later  development 
of  the  science.  Since  the  Euclidean  form,  however,  is  only 
the  product  of  a  very  long  and  thorough  study  of  this  sci- 
ence, and,  therefore,  does  not  consciously  contain  the  slight- 
est trace  of  its  genesis,  this  presentation  of  geometry  is 
anything  but  suited  to  introducing  the  formative  mind  to  the 
way  in  which  science  has  its  origin.  It  Is  only  typical  of  the 
manner  in  which  science,  which  has  already  developed  pros- 
perously to  a  considerably  advanced  stage  of  completeness, 
may  be  logically  co-ordinated  in  accordance  with  known  prin- 
ciples. 

An  insight  Into  this  relationship  is  essential  to  all  the 
questions  pertaining  to  instruction  and  education.  The  con- 
ception which  has  been  current  for  centuries,  that  the  geom- 
etry of  Euclid  is  an  especially  good  means  of  training  for 
the  human  mind,  is  incorrect  in  so  far  as  one  places  any  im- 
portant degree  of  weight  at  all  upon  the  development  of  the 
capacity  for  discovering  new  relationships  and  principles, 
for  forming  new  concepts  out  of  the  chaos  of  varied  experi- 
ences for  the  advantage  of  mankind.  For  this  there  is  not 
the  slightest  Introduction  in  Euclid. 

So  we  see,  then,  that  after  the  overthrow  of  medieval  bar- 
barism, through  which  there  ran  only  a  slender  thread  of 
earlier  cultural  traditions,  the  entire  science  of  the  time  was 
occupied  with  the  task  of  developing  this  tradition  as  com- 
pletely as  possible.    The  real  key  to  it  was  the  knowledge  of 

[806] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

ancient  languages.  For  a  long  time  men  contented  them- 
selves with  Latin  writings,  until  finally,  owing  to  a  series  of 
accidents  at  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century,  the 
Greek  language  and  Greek  tradition  became  known  In  cen- 
tral Europe  and  gave  impetus  to  great  movements  which 
were  called  the  Renaissance  of  art  and  letters.  This  Renais- 
sance had  to  do  primarily  with  art;  secondarily,  under  the 
name  of  humanism,  with  literature,  which,  by  way  of  the 
long  circuitous  route  through  Arabian  translations,  became 
known  to  the  peoples  of  central  Europe,  who  were  once 
more  struggling  upward.  Independently  of  these,  modern 
mathematics,  then  physics  and  chemistry,  arose,  as  we  have 
already  seen  from  what  has  been  said. 

The  fact  that,  owing  to  the  Renaissance,  the  predominant 
occupation  of  the  time  was  on  the  language  side  of  classic 
tradition  was  brought  about  because  the  ancient  works  In  the 
course  of  their  transmission  had  undergone  extensive  dis- 
figurement and  harmful  changes,  so  that  the  reconstruction 
of  the  original,  genuine  text  was  an  Important  preliminary 
condition  for  attaining  their  real  content.  As  is  almost  un- 
avoidable in  such  cases,  the  means  was  gradually  made  the 
end,  and  the  treatment  of  the  corrupt  and  disfigured  texts  by 
means  of  the  apparatus  of  linguistic  criticism  became,  with- 
out any  consideration  for  the  content  that  might  possibly  be 
arrived  at  thereby,  the  subject-matter  of  zealous  and  devoted 
labors,  whereby  the  results  stood  completely  out  of  propor- 
tion to  the  efforts  expended.  Through  this  circumstance  a 
thread  of  pseudo-science  developed  by  the  side  of  that  thread 
of  real  or  empirical  science  which  has  been  described  above. 

In  our  universities  there  may  yet  be  found  a  great  number 
of  men  occupied  with  the  same  tasks  with  which  culture,  just 
beginning  to  emerge  out  of  barbarism,  was  compelled  to 
busy  itself  at  the  beginning  of  modern  times,  in  order  to 

[So?  3 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

disclose  the  only  fountains  of  culture  existing  at  that  time— 
the  traditions  of  classical  writings.  At  the  present  time,  in 
all  sciences  without  exception,  we  have  far  surpassed  the 
stage  reached  by  the  Greeks  and  Romans.  An  objective, 
therefore,  for  expurgating  the  traditions  from  those  days, 
by  means  of  the  apparatus  of  philological  criticism,  no 
longer  exists;  owing,  however,  to  the  law  of  the  conservation 
of  form,  this  work  is  still  being  continued  down  to  the  pres- 
ent day.  And  a  goodly  portion  of  the  respect  that  was  paid 
to  this  activity,  and  with  some  degree  of  justice,  three  or  four 
hundred  years  ago  has  been  maintained  down  to  our  time, 
when  work  of  this  nature  has  completely  lost  its  former  im- 
portance and  has  not  in  the  meantime  attained  to  any  new 
significance.  I  know  full  well  that  with  such  notions  I  am 
placing  myself  in  contradiction  to  the  majority  of  my  con- 
temporaries who  are  studying  the  problem  of  the  sciences. 
But  at  this  important  opportunity  I  cannot  refrain  from  call- 
ing attention,  with  all  possible  emphasis,  to  the  conclusions 
at  which  I  have  arrived  on  this  question.  The  whole 
province  of  the  so-called  mental  sciences,  —  above  all,  classi- 
cal philology,  and  in  connection  therewith  many  other  his- 
torical disciplines,  are  nothing  but  passing  phenomena  which 
do  not  proceed  from  the  continual  ascent  in  the  development 
of  civilization,  but  rather  from  transitory  waves  in  this  great 
stream.  In  their  own  place,  in  so  far  as  it  is  a  question  of 
the  proof  of  certain  stages  of  culture  and  their  peculiarities, 
this  knowledge  has  still  a  certain  value;  but  it  stands  upon 
the  same  plane  of  importance,  for  example,  as  the  know- 
ledge of  the  development  of  the  ancient  Mexican  civiliza- 
tion, or  that  of  China  or  any  other,  and  it  is  out  of  the 
question  to  attribute  indefinitely  this  predominant  importance 
to  the  history  of  the  development  and  content  of  Greek 
civilization  which  by  force  of  tradition  we  still  concede  to  it. 


*"? 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

And  in  measure  as  the  general  laws  of  the  development  of 
culture  become  better  known  (we  shall  return  later  in  proper 
connection  to  this  problem),  in  the  same  proportion  also  the 
knowledge  of  a  particular  case  will  lose  in  importance.  For 
when  the  general  law  is  known  all  the  individual  cases  are 
known  along  with  it,  and  there  is  no  need  of  studying  a  spe- 
cial case  more  thoroughly  than  is  absolutely  necessary  for 
the  clear  and  definite  ends  in  view. 

To  whomsoever  this  judgment  may  appear  severe  or  un- 
just, I  would  beg  him  to  call  to  mind  the  fundamental  defini- 
tion of  science  at  which  we  arrived  in  our  study  of  its 
historical  development.     Science  exists  for  the  purpose  of 
prophecy;  a  science,  however,  which  confines  itself  to  gath- 
ering information  in  the  most  exact  possible  way  concerning 
the  minutiae  of  some  past  epoch  in  the  development  of  a  cer- 
tain people— as,    for  example,   Greek   archaeology  does- 
foregoes  from  the  very  start  all  claim  to  the  character  of  a 
science  and  confines  itself  to  representing  a  branch  of  know- 
ledge that  possibly  at  some  later  time   (when  it  becomes 
impregnated  with  more  general  interests  in  the  wider  field 
of  mental  activities)  may  serve  as  material  for  a  science,  but 
in  itself  is  in  no  wise  a  science  in  the  general  modern  sense. 
The  same  thing  is  true  of  the  relatively  modern  discipline 
of  comparative  philology,  which  also  has  limited  itself  in 
Its   functions  up  to  the  present  exclusively  to  determining 
what  has  existed,  or  at  least  still  exists,  with  respect  to  the 
various  exceedingly  diverse  and  therefore  accidental  forms 
for  the  signs— but  slightly  subject  to  intelligible  laws— which 
different  groups   of  humanity  have  co-ordinated  with  the 
ideas  they  have  formed.     However  well  one  may  know  the 
past  and  present  of  these  formations,  one  has  not  attained 
in  the  slightest  degree  to  anything  in  the  nature  of  true 
science.    Such  a  thing  could  occur  only  if  one  employed  the 

1:8093 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

knowledge  of  the  past  and  present  for  the  prevision  of  the 
future,  and,  whenever  possible,  for  preshaping  it.     This 
leads  us  to  the  true  task  of  linguistics,  namely,  to  the  task 
of  setting  In  place  of  (or  at  first  by  the  side  of)  the  more  and 
more  impossible  multiplicity  of  national  languages,  which 
have  originated  within  narrow  circles,  a  new  general  lan- 
guage,  free  from  all  the  Imperfections  and  shortcomings 
possessed  without  exception  by  all  those   formations  that 
have  risen  by  accident,  and  uniting  all  the  advantages  and 
special  auxiliary  means  that  it  is  possible  to  observe  In  the 
individual  languages  for  the  fulfilment  of  the  purpose  of 
attaining  an  exchange  of  thoughts  as  rational,  simple,  and 
unequivocal  as  is  possible.     In  the  same  way,  chemistry  was 
an  exceedingly  incomplete  science,  — Indeed,  It  was  only  the 
beginning  of  one  so  long  as  it  confined  itself  to  the  analysis 
of  the  materials  at  hand  and  to  the  determination  of  their 
characteristics.     Chemistry  became  an  all-transforming  sci- 
ence only  after  it  had  learned,  on  the  basis  of  the  knowledge 
so  obtained,  to  form  limitless  quantities  of  new  materials 
with  new  characteristics,  — in  fact,  to  seek  consciously  and  to 
gain  synthetically  materials  with  definite  characteristics,  con- 
cerning the  existence  of  which  nothing  was  known  up  to  that 
time,  but  whose  manner  of  production  and  whose  presuma- 
ble characteristics  could  be  foreseen  on  the  basis  of  the  scien- 
tific knowledge  already  attained.     In  precisely  the  same  way 
we  must  employ  our  present  knowledge  concerning  the  for- 
mation and  transformation  of  language  in  order  to  construct 
a  really  complete  and  universally  available  language  which 
may  serve  for  the  general  intercourse  of  mankind,  at  first  by 
the  side  of,  and  perhaps  at  a  very  remote  date  exclusively  In 
the  place  of,  the  national  languages  which  have  arisen  by 

accident. 

These  considerations,  which  in  an  analogous  way  we  may 


^i 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

extend  to  history  (whose  present  scientific  representatives 
for  the  greater  part  also  still  refuse  to  employ  their  know- 
ledge of  what  has  transpired  in  the  past  for  a  logical  prede- 
termination of  the  future),  teach  us  that  the  group  of 
so-called  mental  sciences  at  present  correspond  much  less 
to  the  real  substance  of  science  than  do  the  natural  sciences. 
Nevertheless,  we  observe  how  the  natural  sciences,  ascending 
from  the  simpler  to  the  more  complex,  become  more  and 
more  imbued  with  scientific  method  and  with  the  true  idea 
of  science,  which  looks  toward  prediction,  and  the  approach 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  ideal  thus  characterized.  So  phys- 
ics and  chemistry  in  large  measure  have  already  reached  this 
stage,  while  biology  is  most  zealously  engaged  In  endeavor- 
ing to  attain  to  it.  And  in  very  recent  times  we  have  seen  a 
group  of  sciences  adopting  the  same  methods,  and  with  their 
assistance  making  great  strides  in  the  direction  of  human 
progress  and  culture.  I  refer  to  the  cultural  sciences  com- 
prised at  present  under  the  name  of  sociology.  The  mental 
sciences,  of  which  we  have  just  spoken  as  being  undeveloped, 
are  gradually  being  taken  over  by  sociology,  and  are  being 
fructified  and  rejuvenated  by  the  application  of  general 
scientific  methods.  And  so  in  our  own  day  a  renaissance  of 
science  is  beginning  to  be  felt,  which,  however,  unlike  that  of 
the  artistic  Renaissance,  does  not  confine  itself  to  a  relatively 
short  space  of  time,  but  rather  began  three  hundred  years 
ago,  after  the  rebirth  of  the  sciences  in  central  Europe;  and 
it  has  experienced,  and  must  still  experience,  especially  at 
present,  great  and  Important  changes  in  the  entire  thought 
of  the  time  (as  example  I  mention  only  the  transformation 
of  our  conception  of  the  nature  of  legal  relationship  due  to 
the  irresistible  socialization  of  jurisprudence  in  our  day). 

These  observations  lead  us  now  with  absolute  certainty  to 
the  chief  point  of  our  problem,— to  the  question,  According 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

to  what  principles  are  all  the  sciences  to  be  divided?  We 
have  seen  that  the  element  common  to  all  the  sciences  is  the 
formation  of  ideas  and  the  investigation  of  the  relationships 
between  the  ideas  thus  formed.  And  we  shall  have  to  seek, 
therefore,  a  basis  of  division  for  all  the  sciences  in  the  nature 
of  the  ideas  with  which  the  various  sciences  are  busied.  We 
see  at  once  that  such  a  division  cannot  be  employed  in  con- 
nection with  the  applied  sciences,  which  are  a  product  of  the 
physiological  and  psychic  requirements  of  the  human  race 
and  of  the  accidental  climatic  and  local  conditions  incident 
to  its  development,  but  that  a  system  of  this  kind  can  be 
found  only  in  connection  with  the  pure  sciences,  which  are 
independent  of  such  sources  and  motives,  and  which  are 
directed  merely  toward  the  solution  of  relationships  belong- 
ing in  the  field  of  concepts.  Just  here  an  exceedingly  simple 
and  perspicuous  system  presents  itself,  which  provides  us 
with  the  frame  within  which  all  human  knowledge  may  be 
logically  and  methodically  included,  both  in  the  form  in 
which  it  exists  at  present  and  in  whatever  form  it  may 
assume  in  time  to  come. 

When  we  consider,  therefore,  the  various  ideas  which 
humanity  has  formed,  and  which  have  been  brought  into 
order  by  science,  we  find  in  them  the  following  fundamental 
difference.  There  are  certain  ideas  which  are  the  fairly 
immediate  results  of  experience,  and  which  have  retained  in 
consequence  a  relatively  large  proportion  of  the  inexhaust- 
ible diversity  which  every  experience  brings  with  it.  Such 
concepts,  for  example,  are  "man,"  or  *'tree,"  or  "govern- 
ment," etc.  Since,  however,  the  entire  content  of  a  single 
experience  does  not  serve  each  time  for  the  formation  of 
ideas,  but  only  those  common  portions  of  each  experience 
that  occur  in  a  great  number  of  them,  therefore  every  idea 
is  poorer  than  the  single  experience  which  can  be  associated 

[:8i2] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

with  the  idea.  In  every  single  horse  one  is  able  to  show 
more  individual  differences  than  are  contained  in  the  general 
idea  "horse."  Hence  we  must  take  no  note  of  a  certain  part 
of  every  experience,  or,  technically  speaking,  we  must  ab- 
stract from  it,  in  order  to  arrive  at  the  general  idea  in  ques- 
tion. Now  this  deduction  may  be  carried  more  or  less 
far,— it  may  be  carried  so  far,  for  example,  that  the  idea 
"horse"  is  still  retained;  It  may,  however,  be  carried.  If 
we  include  "horse,"  "dog,"  and  "butterfly,"  as  far  as  the 
much  wider  term  "animal,"  whereby  we  abstract  from  the 
special  peculiarities  of  particular  animals,  and  take  account 
only  of  certain  common  peculiarities,  such  as  assimilation, 
oxidation,  locomotion,  reproduction,  etc.  One  can  imagine 
this  process  of  abstraction  extended  until  we  shall  finally 
arrive  at  notions  which  are  applicable  to  practically  all  expe- 
riences, but  which  on  that  account  have  sacrificed  most  of  the 
peculiarities  of  each  single  experience.  In  fact,  they  can 
retain  only  such  peculiarities  as  occur  in  all  experiences,  and 
which,  therefore,  are  of  the  most  general  character  possible. 
Thus  there  will  always  exist  a  reciprocal  relationship  be- 
tween the  diversity  of  the  single  characteristics,  or  parts, 
included  within  an  Idea,  and  the  number  of  experiences  or 
things  in  general  which  can  be  brought  within  this  Idea.  The 
richer  an  Idea  is  as  regards  content,  the  smaller  It  is  as  re- 
gards its  range,  as  regards  the  number  of  individuals  that 
come  under  this  idea,  and  vice  versa.  This  Is  a  relationship 
which  Is  universal  and  which  therefore  represents  the  prin- 
ciple sought  for  In  the  division  of  Ideas  and  thus  In  that  of 
the  sciences.  We  begin  with  a  science  having  reference  to 
Ideas  of  the  widest  range  and  least  content,  which  accord- 
ingly predicate  something  about  each  and  every  experience, 
but  can  make  only  circumscribed  and  very  general  predica- 
tions about  these  experiences.    We  can  then  ascend  to  con- 

1:8133 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

cepts  which  have  a  richer  content,  but  which  on  that  account 
also  refer  to  a  narrower  range  of  experience,  and  we  can 
thereafter  continue  this  process  step  by  step.  Since  every 
idea  must  have  a  definite  wealth  of  content  and  a  definite 
range,  which  must  fall  between  the  furthermost  limits  of  the 
most  general  and  far-reaching  ideas,  on  the  one  hand,  and 
of  the  richest  and  narrowest  concepts  on  the  other,  so  we  see 
that  according  to  this  principle  we  can  actually  dispose  of  all 
ideas,  each  in  its  own  place,  and  that  a  systematic  arrange- 
ment of  all  conceivable  and  possible  sciences,  in  the  order  of 
narrowing  range  and  increasing  content  of  the  ideas,  gives 
us  the  certainty  of  logically  encompassing  all  human  thought 
and  hence  all  the  human  sciences  possible. 

Before  w^e  undertake  to  carry  out  this  general  idea,  there 
are  perhaps  a  few  words  to  be  said  about  the  real  task  of 
science  in  connection  with  the  study  of  concepts.  In  accord- 
ance with  what  has  been  said,  in  order  to  have  the  totality 
of  science,  it  should  suffice  to  enregister  all  existing  ideas  in 
accordance  with  this  principle  of  content  and  range,  and  to 
group  similar  ideas.  Such  a  notion  is,  of  course,  entirely 
incorrect,  and  the  error  arises  from  the  fact  that  we  have 
tacitly  considered  the  materials  of  our  ideas  as  being  com- 
plete and  correct.  Actually,  however,  no  single  idea  repre- 
sents an  enduring  and  unchangeable  image;  rather  is  it  con- 
stantly subject  to  new  treatment,  owing  to  the  development 
of  special  knowledge  and  to  the  increase  of  our  experience. 
This  development,  on  the  one  hand,  takes  the  direction  of 
causing  us  to  discover  new  elements  of  the  idea  which  pre- 
viously had  not  been  known.  For  example,  every  investiga- 
tion of  the  action  of  any  substance  in  chemistry  produces 
new  facts  of  this  kind,  which  contribute  to  a  more  exact 
characterization  of  the  idea  of  the  particular  substance — 
i.e.,  to  a  more  extensive  differentiation  of  its  content.   More- 

[8143 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

over,  the  ideas  as  first  formed  by  man  have  not  in  many  cases 
been  grouped  and  delimited  most  adequately;  and  there  is 
a  second  kind  of  concept-making  going  on  continuously  in 
all  science,  which  consists  in  our  so  altering  the  range  and 
content  of  the  idea  as  it  was  originally  determined,  and  so 
analyzing  it  or  grouping  it  with  others,  that  a  more  logical 
— i.e.,  a  more  distinct— division  and  arrangement  of  the 
ideas  are  rendered  possible  in  a  way  calculated  to  bring  out 
more  clearly  the  existing  relationship.  It  is  thus  that  we 
gradually  approach  the  solution  of  the  standing  problem  of 
science,  namely,  by  rendering  as  innocuous  as  possible  the 
effects  which  the  process  of  abstraction,  in  necessarily  limit- 
ing experience,  produces  in  every  concept;  by  endeavoring 
to  emphasize  as  completely  and  as  diversely  as  possible  the 
elements  of  the  idea  which  remain  after  this  process  of 
abstraction,  and  to  determine  from  every  point  of  view  their 
present  relationship  within  the  range  of  the  idea. 

Furthermore,  there  exist  relationships  between  the  various 
ideas  which  had  not  been  recognized  at  the  time  the  concept 
was  formed.  To  discover  these  relationships  is  yet  another 
exceedingly  complicated  and  varied  problem  of  science.  It 
forms  the  so-called  deductive  part  of  it,  while  the  deter- 
mination of  the  ideas  and  their  content  is  usually  called  the 
inductive  process  of  science.  Our  results  are  not  very  satis- 
factory when  we  attempt  to  represent  these  two  kinds  of 
activities  as  opposed  to  and  independent  of  each  other,  for 
real  scientific  work  results  from  the  uninterrupted  employ- 
ment of  both  methods.  But  few  sciences  have  developed  to 
such  an  extent  that  the  deductive  part  has  gained  ground,  as 
is  the  case,  for  example,  with  geometry  and  already  to  a  cer- 
tain extent  with  thermodynamics. 

So  we  have  now  made  the  necessary  preparations  in  order 
to  undertake  in  detail  the  formulation  of  the  pure  or  abstract 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

sciences.  For  this  purpose  we  shall  next  endeavor  to  find 
the  very  widest  general  idea  with  which  any  experience  or 
object  one  pleases  may  be  co-ordinated,  which  therefore  pos- 
sesses the  greatest  compass  of  all  conceivable  ideas,  and  in 
addition,  of  course,  the  least  imaginable  content.  This  con- 
cept has  no  definite  name,  for  its  establishment  is  necessary 
only  for  the  purposes  of  pure  science.  In  every-day  life  a 
concept  so  comprehensive  and  so  poor  in  content  finds  no 
suitable  application.  We  shall  therefore  experience  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  difficulty  in  designating  adequately  this  con- 
cept with  the  help  of  language.  Whether  we  speak  of  a 
thing  or  an  experience,  of  an  object,  or  of  anything  else 
which  approaches  this  concept,  we  run  the  risk  of  ascribing 
too  great  profuseness  to  its  content,  hence  too  much  narrow- 
ness to  its  compass.  We  shall,  therefore,  content  ourselves 
with  the  description  that  this  most  general  idea— to  which, 
in  order  to  be  able  to  speak  of  it,  we  shall  ascribe  the  name 
"thing'*— has  no  other  characteristic  than  that  it  represents 
an  experience  which  can  be  differentiated  from  others.  So 
long,  indeed,  as  all  experience  is  felt  to  be  a  regular,  in- 
variable sequence  of  situation,  there  can  evidently  be  no 
question  of  any  conceptual  activity.  Only  when  the  different 
portions  of  our  experience  react  differently  upon  us,  and 
those  which  are  similar  and  coincident  are  included  to  the 
exclusion  of  the  others,  do  the  first  traces  of  conceptive  ac- 
tivity appear.  Thus  there  occurs  automatically  and  uncon- 
sciously the  differentiation  of  our  experiences  and  the 
arrangement  of  the  corresponding  parts,  owing  to  that  gen- 
eral characteristic  of  living  beings  which  has  been  called  by 
Hering,  in  the  widest  sense,  memory— the  basis  for  all  con- 
cept-building in  general.  In  this  sense  a  thing  is  everything 
of  which  we  are  aware  and  which  we  can  feel  to  be  different 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

from  other  things— a  thought  just  as  well  as  a  house,  a  sen- 
sation of  pain  as  well  as  the  Milky  Way,  etc.,  etc. 

A  science  of  this  thing  alone,  without  further  content, 
is  impossible;  for  all  that  can  be  predicated  about  it  is  lim- 
ited by  our  definition  to  the  fact  that  we  can  differentiate 
it  from  others  and  recognize  it  again  on  the  occasion  of  its 
reappearance  in  our  experience.     In  order  that  a  science  be 
possible,  we  must  therefore  be  able  to  bring  somewhat  more 
content  into  the  idea.     This  content  consists,  in  the  first 
place,  in  our  not  limiting  consciousness  to  a  single  thing, 
but  in  combining  a  number  of  things  which  appear  as  belong- 
ing in  any  way  together  into  an  association  or  group.     As 
soon  as  we  do  that  we  get  at  once  a  whole  number  of  possi- 
bilities of  testing  certain  experiences  in  connection  with  such 
groups,  and  of  setting  up  certain  laws  of  nature  which  ex- 
press these  experiences.     If,  for  example,  we  have,  on  the 
one  hand,  a  group  of  children,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  a 
number  of  apples,  we  may  give  each  child  an  apple  and  we 
are  quite  certain  that  one  of  the  following  cases  will  arise. 
Either  each  child  receives  an  apple,  or,  after  giving  out  the 
last  apple,  some  children  are  left  over,  or  there  are  apples 
left  over  after  the  last  child  has  received  an  apple.    There 
can  be  no  other  situation— f.^.,  in  other  words,  we  have 
never  experienced  the  occurrence  of  other  possibilities  when 
we  co-ordinate  the  members  of  one  group  singly  with  the 
members  of  another  group,  as  has  just  been  described. 

The  usual  way  of  expressing  this  law— that,  of  two  things, 
one  is  either  like  or  greater  or  smaller  than  the  other— is 
somewhat  too  narrow,  because  the  idea  of  number  is  in- 
cluded, which  we  arrive  at  only  in  connection  with  a  later 
development  of  the  considerations  we  have  suggested  here. 
In  the  same  way,  the  philosophical  law  regarding  the  ex- 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

eluded  middle,  which  Is  recognized  as  one  of  the  fundamen- 
tals of  logic,  is  only  a  special  case  of  the  general  law  of 
co-ordination,  whose  relation  to  the  general  law  I  need  not 
explain  further.    At  all  events,  we  see  that  even  In  the  case 
of  an  exceedingly  general  operation,  as  In  the  case  of  Inclu- 
sion of  things  Into  groups  and  of  the  co-ordination  of  these 
groups  with  one  another,  very  definite  peculiarities  conform- 
able to  law  soon  appear,  which  we  find  again  in  every  single 
case,  whatever  may  be  the  content  of  the  group  in  other 
respects.     They  have,   therefore,   no   distinguishing  mark 
other  than  that  one  can  merely  distinguish  one  from  the 
others.     We  may  sum  this  all  up  in  the  statement  that,  of 
two  groups,  the  one  must  either  be  similar  to  or  richer  or 
poorer  than  the  other;  other  cases  than  these  three  never 
occur,  and  are  therefore,  as  far  as  experience  goes,  impos- 
sible.   These  experiences  are  so  very  frequent  and  so  com- 
mon that  we  cannot  Imagine  a  world  In  which  these  simple 
laws  of  co-ordination  do  not  hold.     Accordingly  we  have 
not  considered  these  laws  as  empirical  laws,  which  they 
really  are,  but  as  a  priori  laws  which  inhere  in  the  human 
mind  before  any  experience,  but  which  do  not  come  into  Its 
consciousness  until  after  It  has  encountered  them  through 
Individual  experience.     We  have  no  reason  to  hold  longer 
this  artificial  construction,  which  has  no  real  basis,  but  whose 
source  Is  to  be  traced  back  to  the  half-forgotten  religious 
conceptions  regarding  the  act  of  creation  and  the  endow- 
ment of  man  with  certain  characteristics  on  the  occasion  of 

that  act. 

With  these  considerations  others  may  be  connected  by 
means  of  which  one  arrives  at  the  Idea  of  number  by  the 
comparison  of  groups  and  by  the  systematic  construction 
of  them  out  of  single  numbers.  We  see,  then,  that  if  we 
confine  our  observations  to  enumerable  things,  we  arrive 

[818;] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

at  a  corresponding  science— arithmetic,  or  science  of  num- 
ber.    Some  one  may  perhaps  ask  whether  there  really  are 
any  things  at  all  which  cannot  be  counted.    Without  doubt, 
an  aflirmative  answer  must  be  given  to  this  question;  for  In 
our  experience  we  have  a  number  of  parts  which  are  variable 
without  our  being  able  to  set  the  various  single  parts  over 
and  against  each  other.    When,  for  example,  we  look  at  the 
sky  at  sunset,  it  has  on  the  horizon  the  color  of  gold  and 
gleams;  as  one  looks  toward  the  zenith,  this  gleaming  phase 
of  the  sky  passes  by  degrees  through  greenish  tones  over 
into  the  pure  blue  of  the  sky.    In  this  case  we  are  quite  cer- 
tain that  the  color  of  the  sky  at  the  horizon  and  at  the  zenith 
Is  different.     We  are  not  able,  however,  to  designate  nu- 
merically the  number  of  the  different  colors  of  which  the 
total  variety  consists,  because  a  line  of  demarcation  can 
nowhere  be  drawn  between  the  ending  of  one  color  and  the 
beginning  of  the  next.     Therefore  all  the  continuous  diver- 
sities that  we  experience  elude  enumeration,  although  they  do 
not  escape  co-ordination;  for,  to  retain  this  illustration,  every 
special  color  in  the  whole  wealth  of  color  in  this  sky  has  its 
own  special  place,  and  we  should  easily  notice  it  if  we  were 
to  undertake  to  transfer  the  color  as  It  appears  at  a  height 
of  thirty  degrees,  as  a  spot,  to  a  height  of  sixty  or  seventy 
degrees  above  the  horizon.    There  it  would  be  completely 
different  from  its  surroundings  and  would  not  merge  con- 
tinuously with  them.    Thus  the  succession  of  colors  from  the 
horizon  to  the  zenith  represents  an  ordered  variety,  not 
a  multiplicity  consisting  of  members  which  can  be  counted, 
but  which,  on  the  other  hand,  are  connected  from  beginning 
to  end  by  a  constant  relationship.    This,  of  course,  is  not  the 
place  to  enter  upon  a  discussion  of  the  systematic  construc- 
tion of  this  whole  theory  of  multiplicity.     From  what  has 
been  said  one  gets  a  sufficiently  clear  picture  of  how,  by  the 


./ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

inclusion  of  one  idea  after  another,  more  and  more  elements 
come  into  connection,  through  whose  alternate  union  and 
mutual  effect  an  increasing  variety  of  relationships  or  special 
conditions  arise,  the  determination  of  which  is  the  mission 
of  science.  In  the  relatively  simple  case  of  geometry  it  has 
already  been  shown  by  recent  investigations  that  at  least  six- 
teen different  and  entirely  independent  concepts  are  united 
to  render  the  multiplicity  of  geometric  phenomena.  And  the 
theory  of  combinations  shows  us  at  once  an  immense  number 
of  combinations  of  second,  third,  fourth,  up  to  the  sixteenth 
order,  between  these  ideas;  and  what  a  variety,  therefore, 
must  be  produced  by  the  whole  of  a  science  so  simple  as 
geometry!  And  if  we  include  in  addition  the  idea  of  time, 
we  pass  from  geometry  to  kinematics,  the  theory  of  motion, 
which  proves  to  be  considerably  more  varied  than  geometry. 
All  these  sciences  may  be  included  under  the  idea  of  order, 
and  hence  may  be  termed  in  an  inclusive  manner  the  sciences 
of  order.  As  regards  their  relations  to  the  science  groups 
previously  formed,  the  most  important  thing  to  be  said  is 
that  the  most  general  theory  of  order  is  identical  with  the 
discipline  which,  ever  since  Aristotle,  has  received  the  name 
of  logic.  Aristotelian  logic,  to  be  sure,  is  only  a  very  small 
part  of  the  theory  of  order— that  part,  namely,  having  to  do 
w^ith  the  inclusion  and  exclusion  of  groups  corresponding  to 
certain  definitions.  Modern  symbolic  logic,  or  logistic 
{Logistik),  as  it  has  also  been  called,  represents  a  more 
scientific  and  universal  conception  of  the  problems  before  us, 
but  it  has  not  yet  arrived  at  the  most  elementary  analysis  of 
their  concepts.  This  is  due  to  the  fact  that  symbolic  logic 
has  been  developed  from  the  side  of  mathematics,  which  is 
a  still  more  complicated  science,  in  that  one  thing  after  an- 
other has  been  thought  out  from  the  elements  of  mathe- 
matical concepts  as  presuppositions.     This  process  of  ab- 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

straction  has  already  been  carried  quite  far,  and  we  now 
have  a  corresponding  science  which  has  been  developed  in 
recent  years  to  an  encouraging  degree  in  a  variety  of  direc- 
tions. But  the  ultimate  deductions  have  not  been  systemati- 
cally completed,  so  that  an  accurate  working  out  of  the 
thoughts  just  outlined  here  is  still  lacking,  and  this  first-prin- 
ciple foundation  for  all  other  sciences,  which  from  the  very 
nature  of  the  case  is  all-important,  is  yet  to  be  constructed. 
Thus  much,  however,  is  already  known:  that  logic  still 
passes  as  a  postulate  for  all  other  sciences.  For,  as  we  know, 
there  Is  no  single  science  that  does  not  consider  as  at  least 
one  of  its  aims  the  bringing  of  all  its  thought  material  into 
logical  relationship— f.^.,  the  subjection  of  It  to  the  laws  of 
logic,  or  to  the  general  theory  of  order. 

The  disciplines  called  arithmetic,  or  theory  of  numbers, 
and  algebra,  or  theory  of  quantities,  are  still  more  special 
cases.  For  the  general  hypothesis  which  Is  made  In  algebra, 
that  things  belonging  thereto  can  be  added  to  or  subtracted 
from  one  another,  and  furthermore  that  as  quantities  they 
can  be  subjected  to  measurement.  Is  Itself  a  limitation,  since, 
as  we  have  seen,  there  are  also  things  which  cannot  be  added 
or  measured,  and  hence  cannot  be  subjected  to  the  other 
algebraical  operations. 

In  connection  with  this  description  of  the  most  general  of 
all  the  sciences,  we  are  at  once  confronted  with  a  fact  which 
Is  absolutely  fundamental  for  the  entire  superstructure  of 
the  sciences,  and  with  which  we  must,  therefore,  become  as 
thoroughly  acquainted  as  possible.  We  have  seen  that  the 
most  general  concept  of  a  thing  may  be  defined  by  saying 
that  that  thing  may  be  differentiated  from  all  other  things. 
This  characteristic  of  differentiability  Is  evidently  a  charac- 
teristic which  is  presupposed  in  any  scientific  problem. 
Whether  we  are  examining  chemical  substances  or  search- 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

ing  for  the  natural  laws  having  to  do  with  agriculture,  we 
must  always  be  able  to  differentiate  the  objects  with  which 
we  are  busying  ourselves  In  order  to  be  able  to  talk  at  all 
sensibly  about  them  and  to  determine  their  natural  laws.  In 
other  words,  this  means  that  those  elements  of  an  Idea  which 
we  have  found  occurring  as  the  7nost  general  ones  we  also 
encounter  anew,  owing  to  this  very  characteristic  of  univer- 
sality, In  connection  with  all  the  special  Ideas  which  we  meet 
In  any  way  or  place  In  the  more  special  departments  of  sci- 
ence. The  most  general  sciences,  therefore,  will  Inform  us 
concerning  relationships  which  are  not  confined  to  these 
sciences  themselves,  but  are  found  in  all  other  sciences  which 
arise  through  specialization  from  the  more  general  applied 
ideas,-which  treat  ideas,  therefore,  that  contain  more  con- 
stituent parts  and  more  diversified  ones  than  the  ideas  of 
the  more  general  sciences. 

The  fact  has  already  been  emphasized  that  logic,  for  ex- 
ample, is  a  criterion  for  all  the  other  sciences,  and  that  Its 
laws  must  be  fulfilled  before  there  can  be  any  question  of 
special  laws  In  the  other  sciences.     We  also  find  that  the 
quantity  characteristics  and  the  Intensive  variations  parallel 
thereto  that  have  no  quantity  characteristics  occur  In  all  the 
other    sciences.      Whether    we    have    under    consideration 
sociological  or  physical  problems,  we  endeavor  In  each  and 
every  case  to  apply  number  and  measure  to  them,  and  we 
think  that  we  have  made  unusual  progress  In  these  sciences  If 
we  have  succeeded  In  applying  more  general  principles  and 
methods  of  this  kind.     In  the  same  way  we  apply  to  geom- 
etry the  ideas  which  we  have  developed  In  arithmetic  and 
algebra,  and  kinematics  in  its  turn  presupposes  again  all  the 
Ideas  and  relationships  of  geometry  in  order  to  be  able  to 
express  thereupon  its  special  laws. 

Here,  then,  we  have  a  natural  law  for  the  formation  of 

[822;] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

all  the  sciences.  The  more  general  ideas  and  laws  enter  as 
regular  component  parts  into  all  higher  or  more  special  sci- 
ences, and  there  Is  no  possibility  at  all  of  making  any  sort 
of  scientific  assertion  in  these  more  special  or  higher  depart- 
ments if  the  hypotheses  are  not  fulfilled  which  the  laws  of 
the  lower  or  more  general  sciences  demand.  We  shall, 
therefore,  be  able  to  say  that  every  higher  science  is  divided 
into  as  many  separate  divisions  as  there  are  lower  sciences  to 
be  found  below  it.  The  most  complicated  and  highest  of  the 
sciences  that  we  have  considered — kinematics — will,  there- 
fore, have  its  algebraical  and  arithmetical  and  finally  its 
logical  side,  for  all  the  laws  of  the  sciences  just  mentioned 
are  already  presupposed  before  one  is  able  to  set  up  the 
special  kinematical  laws.  Hence,  to  express  the  matter  in 
a  purely  scientific  and  technical  manner,  the  variety  of 
science,  or  the  number  of  headings  Into  which  It  falls,  must 
become  greater  and  greater  the  higher  we  ascend  the  pyramid 
of  the  sciences.  This  point  of  view  will  be  of  decisive  im- 
portance to  us,  especially  in  connection  with  the  later,  more 
complicated  sciences,  in  dividing  and  reviewing  them. 

We  turn  now  to  the  second  group  of  pure  sciences,  which 
treats  of  ideas  that  are  lesser  In  range,  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  are  more  diversified  in  content,  than  the  Ideas  that 
have  been  richest  in  content  heretofore,  and  which  have  been 
employed  in  the  field  of  the  sciences  of  order  which  we  have 
just  completed.  These  more  diversified  concepts  are  space 
and  time,  and  it  will  be  well,  perhaps,  to  convince  ourselves 
that  both  ideas  are  already  of  a  very  complex  nature.  We 
are  accustomed  to  think  of  space  In  the  following  manner: 
we  know  that  it  has  three  dimensions,  each  independent  of 
the  other;  that  it  therefore  represents  a  threefold  manifold- 
ness;  that  it  is  in  other  ways  continuous  and  without  direc- 
tion— i.e.,  that  It  Is  alike  in  all  directions.     It  is  to  a  less 

1:8233 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

degree  a  matter  of  common  knowledge  that  time  represents 
a  complex  of  quite  a  number  of  Ideas.  One  can  soon  convince 
himself,  however,  that  it  certainly  is  not  of  an  elementary 
nature,  for  it  shares  with  space  the  characteristic  of  con- 
tinuity; it  is  not,  however,  of  three  dimensions,  but  of  one 
dimension— f.^.,  in  other  words,  one  can  pass  from  one 
point  of  time  to  another  only  in  one  way,  and  not,  as  in  the 
case  of  space,  in  a  threefold  infinitude  of  different  optional 
ways.  Moreover,  there  belongs  to  time  a  characteristic 
which  we  do  not  encounter  in  connection  with  space,  namely, 
the  lack  of  symmetry.  We  differentiate  the  past  from  the 
future  with  absolute  certainty,  while  in  space  it  is  entirely 
arbitrary  what  direction  we  call  forward  and  back,  or  up 
and  down,  so  long  as  we  leave  out  of  consideration  other 
relationships  not  having  to  do  with  space.  Moreover,  time 
has  the  characteristic  that,  in  spite  of  its  one-dimensional 
nature,  it  never  overlaps  itself,  there  is  never  a  point  of  time 
that  belongs  at  the  same  time  to  an  earlier  or  later  time. 
These  are  all  characteristics  which  can  be  expressed  only 
with  the  help  of  simpler  ideas,  and  which,  therefore,  make 
one  realize  how  very  composite  and  complex  an  idea  is, 
taken  in  such  a  form  from  our  experience. 

In  this  connection  we  can  only  mention  in  a  few  words 
the  fact  that  by  means  of  the  latest  developments  in  physics, 
especially  through  certain  optical  experiments,  science  has 
been  able  to  subject  the  Ideas  of  space  and  time  to  a  revision 
which  has  led  to  a  peculiar  synthesis.  According  to  these 
developments,  the  detallsof  which  cannot  be  elaborated  here, 
space  and  time  are  not  to  be  thought  of  at  all  independently 
of  each  other;  but,  on  the  contrary,  terrestrial  occurrences 
are  represented  by  a  four-dimensional  multiplicity,  three 
dimensions  of  which  belong  to  what  has  heretofore  been 
called  space  and  one  to  time.    These  dimensions,  however, 

1:8243 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

are  not  mutually  independent,  for  the  definition  of  time  in 
various  places  and  that  of  space  at  various  times  condition 
each  other  in  a  special  way.    This  points  to  a  weighty  gen- 
eral point  of  view,  with  which  we  shall  soon  be  intimately 
confronted.     We  may  ask  ourselves  whether  the  simple 
ideas  upon  which  we  gradually  build  up  our  system  of  ideas 
are  of  such  a  nature  that  each  newly  added  idea  comes  as  an 
additional  degree  of  higher  order  to  those  which  have  been 
treated  and  employed  previously.    In  that  case  there  would 
exist  among  the  various  simple  Ideas  a  definite  hierarchy, 
according  to  which,  in  the  first  place,  are  employed  for  the 
construction  of  a  scientific  system  those  general  conceptions 
which  have  the  most  universal  character,  and  then,  of  the 
other  Ideas,  those  which  follow  each  other  in  this  hierarchy 
should  by  degrees  be  sought  out  and  employed  for  the  con- 
struction.   Up  to  the  present  this  question  has  not  been  sub- 
jected to   a   close  examination,   and  the  possible   answers 
thereto  can  therefore  only  be  touched  upon.      It  appears 
from  what  one  has  been  able  to  see  heretofore  that  a  double 
relationship  obtains.     Single  conceptions  actually  are  built 
up  one  above  the  other  in  this  hierarchical  manner.     This 
we  see  from  the  fact  that  after  examining  the  question  from 
all  sides,  there  Is  Indeed  but  one  single  definite  sequence  of 
sciences  that  permits  of  arrangement  one  above  the  other 
according  to  these  principles.     From  this  we  must  conclude 
that  the  new  conceptions  appearing  In  connection  with  the 
higher  or  more  special  sciences  are  of  such  a  nature  that  they 
can  appear  only  at  this  point,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  can 
play  no  role  In  the  sphere  of  more  general  concept-building. 
On  the  contrary,  we  observe  (and  the  relationship  of  space 
and  time  just  described  affords  us  an  example  of  this)  that 
when  we  arrive  at  a  certain  stratum  of  science  formation  It  is 
not  one  single  newly  added  conception  which  determines- the 

[825:3 


t 


A.  -., 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

new  science,  but  several.  In  this  case,  then,  it  would  be  the 
ideas  of  space  and  time  which,  since  they  are  not  inde- 
pendent of  each  other,  cannot  occur  as  steps  one  after  the 
other  independently  of  each  other,  but  determine  simul- 
taneously the  new  stratum  of  thought  and  science. 

In  the  observations  which  we  shall  now  have  to  make 
regarding  the  sciences  next  in  rank— the  energetical— we 
shall  find  a  similar  case.     The  various  types  of  energy  ap- 
pear as  absolutely  parallel  conceptions  which  have  no  natural 
gradation  as  regards  each  other,  — at  least,  none  has  been 
recognized    and    proved    beyond    possible    question,  — and 
which  may  be  used,  therefore,  beside  one  another  in  what- 
ever sequence  one  pleases.    By  their  application  to  the  classi- 
fication of  the   sciences  there   result   a   number  of  special 
sciences,  which  are  to  be  arranged  one  beside  the  other,  but 
not  one  over  another.    With  these  hints,  I  must  let  the  mat- 
ter rest  here,  and  only  state  in  general  that  investigations 
like  the  above  have  not  as  yet  been  carried  out  in  science 
from  sufficiently  general  standpoints,  so  that  it  is  frequently 
new  territory,  not  yet  investigated  or  worked,  which  must 
be  entered.     The  uncertainty  naturally  belonging  to  such 
soil  is  lessened  owing  to  the  fact  that  we  have  already  come 
to  an  understanding  concerning  the  more  general  principles 
according  to  which  the  investigation  is  to  be  carried  on. 
Therefore  each  single  case  that  has  not  yet  been  more  thor- 
oughly examined  may  be  clearly  and  definitely  determined, 
thanks  to  these  principles. 

We  now  turn  to  the  second  great  stratum  of  the  sciences. 
The  first  we  called  the  sciences  of  order,  after  their  all-im- 
portant, determining  central  idea,  and  the  second  we  shall 
call  the  energetical  sciences,  because  in  this  case  the  idea  of 
energy  is  shown  to  be  as  general  and  determining  as  was 
order  in  the  sciences  mentioned  heretofore.     The  sciences 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

which  we  shall  discuss  here  are  also  called  the  physical  or 
inorganic  sciences;  according  to  traditional  division,  they 
consist  of  mechanics,  physics,  and  chemistry,  and  have  to  do 
with  far  more  complex  ideas  than  those  with  which  the  sci- 
ences of  order  had  to  deal.  Within  the  sciences  of  order  a 
cube  Is  determined,  so  far  as  geometry  is  concerned,  by  the 
length  of  an  edge;  for  the  geometer  there  are  not  two  or 
more  different  cubes,  the  measurement  of  whose  sides  is  one 
centimeter.  In  physics,  on  the  other  hand,  such  a  cube  may 
turn  out  in  a  great  variety  of  states:  It  may  be  different  In 
density,  in  color,  in  temperature.  In  electric  activity,  etc., 
etc.  Still  greater  variety  occurs  In  connection  with  this  idea 
in  chemistry,  where  the  cube  may  be  formed  not  only  out  of 
more  than  a  hundred  thousand  different  chemical  substances, 
but  also  out  of  an  Infinity  of  solutions  and  compounds  made 
from  them,  and  therefore  it  appears  to  the  chemist  each  time 
as  a  different  object. 

We  have  already  designated  energy  as  the  central  Idea 
within  this  sphere.  This  means  that  one  can  express  all  the 
variations  of  which  we  have  just  spoken  within  the  whole 
sphere  of  physical  sciences  by  certain  statements  regarding 
their  ratio  of  energy.  Since  It  Is  here  a  question  of  a  rela- 
tively new  thought  formation  which  stood  in  a  certain  an- 
tithesis to  those  hitherto  encountered,  a  few  words  concern- 
ing this  matter  are  necessary.  The  field  of  the  phenomena 
which  have  just  been  characterized  Is  more  commonly  termed 
at  present  the  field  of  material  phenomena,  or  of  phenomena 
occurring  in  matter.  In  which  connection  we  understand  mat- 
ter to  be  the  foundation,  or  what  is  permanent  In  the  diver- 
sity, of  physical  phenomena.  A  general  characteristic  of 
concept  formation  has  made  Itself  felt  In  this  connection, 
which  we  can  also  show,  even  if  not  quite  as  clearly,  in  the 
Ideas  of  the  sciences  of  order,  but  which  Is  especially  fa- 


T 


1 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

miliar  to  us  in  the  field  of  which  we  are  at  present  to  treat. 
This  is  the  idea  of  substance.    We  have  already  seen  that 
our  mental  attainment  is  characterized  essentially  by  the 
ability   to   remember,   through   the   circumstance   that   the 
recurrence  of  an  event  affects  us  differently  from  its  first 
occurrence.    Owing  to  the  function  of  memory,  those  which 
are  repeated  are  endowed  with  the  characteristic  of  famil- 
iarity, and  thus,  when  we  encounter  new  experiences  of  so 
well  known  character,  we  are  placed  in  a  position  to  feel  at 
homxc  or  at  ease  with  them;  that  is,  the  different  component 
parts  of  the  experiences  are  expected  and  presupposed  by  us, 
because  we  have  impressed  their  connection  upon  our  minds 
by  the  function  of  memory.    Things  which  always  recur  to- 
gether as  regards  space,  such  as  are  represented  by  the  ideas 
of  "apple"  or  ''stone"  or  "tree,"  we  are  accustomed  to  con- 
sider as  belonging  together,  and  to  call  with  special  em- 
phasis "objects"  or  "substances."    Here  it  is  a  question  of 
such  formations  as  show  a  quality  of  stability;  and  therefore 
each  time  that  we  come  in  contact  with  them,  a  school  of 
philosophy  which  denies  so-called  reality,— i.^.,  the  existence 
of  things  independent  of  ourselves,— owing  to  the  circum- 
stance that  we  can  experience  such  things  only  in  our  con- 
sciousness, thinks  itself  justified  in  drawing  the  conclusion 
that  these  things  exist  only  in  our  consciousness.    I  shall  not 
occupy  myself  with  a  refutation  of  this  opinion,  but  merely 
call  attention  to  the  fact  that  no  one  of  the  philosophers  who 
share  this  opinion  arranges  his  practical  life  correspond- 
ingly.    Each  of  them,  like  the  rest  of  mankind,  actually 
demeans  himself  as  a  realist  as  regards  the  facts  of  life— 
i.e.   he  recognizes  in  his  practical  attitude  toward  them  that 
they  have  an  independent  existence  in  no  wise  influenced  by 
his  consciousness,  and  confines  this  spiritualistic  theory  of 
existence  to  his  books  and  lectures.    And  there,  too,  we  may 

1:828] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

leave  them,  because  it  is  my  intention  to  deal  only  with  real- 
ities—f.^.,  with  such  things  as  have  practical  results,  and 
especially  with  such  as  enable  us  to  foretell  the  future  with 
certainty. 

The  ideas  of  such  substances  are  formed,  as  we  have  seen, 
automatically  from  our  experiences  through  the  function  of 
memory.     Our  whole  language,  in  its  nouns,  is  full  of  the 
names  of  such  substances,  in  which,  however,  the  character- 
istic of  stability  changes  within  various  limits.    We  encoun- 
ter every  possible  and  imaginable  degree  of  stability,  from 
things  which  exist  only  for  a  moment,  but  recur  often  with 
the  same  characteristics,  — for  example,  lightning,— to  things 
in  which,  within  the  memory  of  man,  no  lasting  changeable- 
ness  has  ever  been  shown,  — for  example,  sun  and  moon, 
—  and  therefore  we  always  guard  ourselves  very  carefully 
from  connecting  with  the  idea  of  a  substance,  or  of  a  real 
thing,  any  kind  of  postulate  concerning  its  "absolute"  per- 
manence.    We  can,  of  course,  say  to  ourselves  that  sub- 
stances in  connection  with  which  there  can  be  shown  a  very 
high,  or,  so  far  as  our  memory  serves  us,  even  an  absolute 
degree  of  invariability,  will  evidently  play  a  predominantly 
Important  role  in  the  formation  of  concepts.    So  we  see  that 
In  the  entire  province  of  physical  sciences  mankind  has  con- 
tinually sought  for  ideas  by  which  such  substances  may  be 
represented.    And  the  whole  thought  of  the  period  of  scien- 
tific development  which  terminated  with  the  middle  of  the 
last  century  rests  essentially  upon  the  fact  that  a  concept  of 
substance  which  had  been  developed  up  to  that  time— that  of 
matter— was  considered  the  most  general  and  lasting.    This 
Idea  of  matter  was  formed  quite  rationally  in  the  eighteenth 
century,  men  having  co-ordinated  with  each  related  group  of 
physical  phenomena,  determined  by  their  similarity,  a  form 
of  "matter"  appertaining  thereto.    So  there  was,  by  the  side 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

of  the  heavy,  massive  matter  of  ponderable  substances,  also 
matter  In  the  form  of  warmth,  of  light,  of  electricity,  of 
magnetism;  and  each  of  these  terms  serves  to  designate  the 
existence  of  a  definite  kind  of  essence,  or  substance,  to  which 
a  certain  measure  of  durability  and  constancy  has  been  at- 
tributed experimentally.     Then,  however,  a  certain  degree 
of  hesitancy  regarding  the  completely  ideal  durability  of 
many  of  these  substances  began  to  make  itself  felt.    One  can 
produce  electric  matter  by  rubbing  glass  and  rosin;  magnetic 
matter  may  be  increased  arbitrarily  by  rubbing  unmagnetic 
steel  rods;  and  In  the  same  way  one  sees  matter  in  the  form 
of  warmth  arise  in  fire  and  disappear  by  absorption.     We 
are  confronted  here  by  a  twofold  possibility :  either  one  may 
extend  the  idea  of  matter  in  such  a  way  that  we  may  also 
Include  in  it  this  process  of  appearance  and  disappearance, 
or  we  may  limit  the  idea  of  matter  to  those  things  that  we 
have  experienced  in  which  we  are  unable  to  show  appearance 
or  disappearance.    Science  has  chosen  the  second  route,  and 
all  imponderable  forms  of  matter  in  which  a  process  of  ap- 
pearing and  disappearing  can  everywhere  be  shown  have 
been  eliminated  from  science.     During  the  whole  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  since  the  time  when  Lavoisier  proved  — 
or,  rather,  since  the  publication  of  the  postulate  first  promul- 
gated by  Lavoisier— that  the  sum  of  welghable  substance 
remains  constant  under  all  circumstances,  the  idea  of  matter 
has  been  confined  merely  to  these  ponderable  substances. 
By  this  process  every  other  form  of  matter  came  into  a  false 
position,  so  that  one  did  not  know  how  to  classify  these 
entities,  which,  however,  had  not  given  up  their  role  in  either 
pure  or  technical  science.    One  finally  got  around  the  diffi- 
culty by  deciding  to  consider  them  hypothetically  as  motions. 
This,  however,  has  not  been  carried  out  consistently.    Until 
toward  the  end  of  the  nineteenth  century  one  read  not  infre- 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

quently  of  electric  *'fluidum,"  even  though  the  expression 
electric  "fluid"  was  avoided  on  account  of  a  sort  of  linguistic 
feeling  of  embarrassment. 

This  un-coordinated  and,  so  far  as  system  is  concerned, 
insufficient  character  of  science  has  been  fundamentally 
obviated  by  the  discovery  of  the  law  of  the  conservation  of 
energy.  In  his  fundamental  work,  Julius  Robert  Mayer, 
the  first  discoverer  of  this  law,  undertook  the  single,  definite 
task  of  finding  by  the  side  of  welghable  matter  (whose  con- 
stancy in  all  transformations,  so  far  as  weight  and  mass  are 
concerned,  had  been  fully  confirmed  by  the  physical  and 
chemical  investigations  that  had  been  made  in  the  mean- 
time) still  another  similar  substance  or  matter  which  would 
include  the  imponderable  part  of  natural  realities.  Mayer 
called  these  things  forces,  and  hence  sought,  as  he  ex- 
pressed it,  to  find  a  law  which  permitted  of  attributing  to 
these  forces  that  kind  of  uncreatablllty  and  indestructibility 
that  had  been  noted  in  matter.  His  investigations  at  first 
led  him  into  error.  After  he  discovered  that  by  the  em- 
ployment of  mechanical  action  warmth  was  created,  and,  on 
the  other  hand,  that  in  heat  machines  mechanical  action  can 
be  attained  through  the  employment  of  heat,  he  sought  long 
in  a  wrong  direction  for  the  mechanical  expression  which 
could  be  proved  equivalent  to  heat.  Only  after  having  en- 
deavored in  vain  to  provide  the  mechanical  quantities,  as  he 
encountered  them  in  text-books  of  physics  as  the  measure  of 
force,  with  this  characteristic  of  uncreatablllty  and  indestruc- 
tibility, did  he  finally  arrive  at  the  conclusion  that  the  desired 
characteristic  of  mechanical  work  is  due  to  the  product  of 
force  and  distance.  With  this  discovery  he  revived  an  idea 
already  expressed  with  utmost  assurance  and  definiteness  by 
Leibnitz  upon  a  basis  of  purely  mechanical  considerations. 
Leibnitz  had  already  shown  that  in  the  course  of  the  mani- 

1:8313 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

fold  changes  of  mechanical  agencies  into  each  other  there 
always   remains  finally,   in  like  constellation,  in  the  ideal 
limiting-case,  that  which  he  called  living  force,  the  quantity 
which  we  now  term  kitietic  or  motive  energy.     Mayer's  ad- 
dition is  the  clear  recognition  of  that  which  had  found  only 
short  and  rather  hypothetical  mention  at  the  hands  of  Leib- 
nitz, that  in  all  cases  where  this  law  of  conservation  does  not 
hold,  another  form  of  force  (as  Mayer  called  it),  energy 
(as  we  call  it),  has  taken  the  place  of  mechanical  work  or 
natural  power,  and  this  other  form  is,  in  general,  heat.     In 
the  meantime  Mayer  extended  this  idea  to  all  other  forms  of 
energy  known  at  that  time.    We  are  indebted  to  him  for  the 
view  that  in  addition  to  ponderable  matter  there  was  an- 
other sort  of  substance,  an  unweighable  substance,  which  he 
called  power,  and  which,  like  weighable  matter,  possesses 
the  property  of  remaining  quantitatively  unchanged,  what- 
ever be  the  qualitative  changes  that  it  undergoes. 

It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  this  idea  was  arrived  at  inde- 
pendently by  Joule,  Helmholtz,  and  a  few  other  investiga- 
tors,  and  was  further  developed  by  them,  and  that  down  to 
the  present  it  has  led  to  the  most  definite  and  far-reaching 
theory  concerning  all  physical  phenomena  that  science  has 
ever  possessed.  We  now  know  that  all  physical  phenomena, 
inclusive  of  chemistry,  may  be  quite  sufficiently  and  accu- 
rately defined  and  characterized  as  transformations  of 
energy;  so  that,  given  the  kind  and  amounts  of  the  forms  of 
energy  that  disappear  and  those  that  arise,  every  physical 
event  is  sufficiently  characterized. 

We  thus  see  that  the  idea  of  substance,  which  was  decisive 
for  the  origin  of  conceptions  within  the  sphere  of  physical 
phenomena,  assumed  its  most  accurate  and  all-Important 
form  in  the  Idea  of  energy.  And  it  only  remains  to  call 
attention  in  a  few  words  to  the  fact  that  in  this  regard 

[832] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

energy  has  a  more  real  meaning  than  ponderable  matter, 
which  had  been  looked  upon  from  a  physical  point  of  view 
as  the  essential  part  of  all  phenomena.    For  the  most  recent 
development  of  physics  has  brought  us  to  the  point  of  view 
that  mass  can  no  longer  be  considered  as  something  that  is 
unchangeable  under  all  circumstances,  and  that  under  pres- 
ent conditions  we  can  no  longer  consider  as  absolutely  cor- 
rect either  the  fundamental  mechanical  law  concerning  the 
conservation  of  mass,  or  the  law,  regarded  as  equally  fun- 
damental, concerning  the  conservation  of  the  quantity  of 
motion  or  of  the  center  of  gravity.    It  is  true  of  the  greatest 
part  of  the  phenomena  of  which  we  know.     In  a  certain 
number  of  phenomena,  on  the  other  hand,— those,  namely, 
in  which  radiation  occurs  as  an  energetical  element,  — further 
and  more  general  formulation  is  necessary,  and  with  its  de- 
velopment science  is  now  engaged.     The  history  of  this 
matter  comes  to  a  focus,  however,  in  the  fact  that  energy,  as 
a  matter  of  course,  must  be  recognized  in  general  and  in 
particular  as  a  substance.     For,  although  in  this  last-men- 
tioned great  change  in  physics  all  other  laws  of  conservation, 
and  hence  all  other  previous  ideas  of  substance,  have  experi- 
enced upheavals  and  interruptions,  no  one  has  yet  dared, 
even  in  the  course  of  the  most  far-reaching  speculations,  to 
doubt  the  law  of  the  conservation  of  energy.     This  is  not 
due  to  any  sentimental  reasons;  for  the  law  regarding  the 
conservation  of  energy  Is  not  much  over  half  a  century  old, 
and  therefore  has  by  no  means  become  such  an  almost  in- 
eradicable element  of  our  mentality  as  had  formerly  been 
the  case  with  the  fundamental  laws  of  mechanics  at  the 
hands  of  scientific  people.    The  cause  Is,  rather,  that  while 
those  other  substances,  especially  weight,  mass,  and  the  simi- 
lar quantities  that  we  have  mentioned,  extend  their  signifi- 
cance over  quite  a  considerable  proportion  of  science,— but 

n8333 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

not,  however,  over  the  whole  range  of  phenomena  coming 
here  into  consideration,— energy,  on  the  other  hand,  is  the 
absolutely  universal  idea  which  finds  its  application  in  every 
physical  phenomenon,— yes,  as  we  have  seen,  m  connection 
with  every  occurrence  in  general.  To  question  the  accuracy 
of  the  law  of  the  conservation  of  energy  would  mean  in  fact 
to  bring  about  a  much  more  far-reaching  upheaval  in  our 
previous  methods  of  thought  than  to  discuss  the  changeabil- 
ity of  quantity  (shown  according  to  newest  theories  to  be 
dependent  on  its  rapidity)    and  other  more  circumscribed 

questions. 

Now  this  is  the  reason  why  we  in  general  term  the  great 
new  field  of  science,  which  has  been  opened  by  specializing 
the  previous  more  general  ideas,  the  field  of  the  energetical 
sciences.  In  regard  to  energy  we  know  that  it  is  a  quantity 
taking  part  in  all  the  phenomena  of  the  entire  field,  and 
which,  as  regards  all  these  phenomena,  is  subject  to  the  law 
that  to  disappearing  amounts  of  any  forms  of  energy  there 
always  correspond  like  amounts  of  other  forms  of  energy 
which  arise  simultaneously,  so  that  the  sum  of  all  forms  of 
energy  remains  constant.  The  question,  then,  how  can  one 
measure  these  various  forms  of  energy  so  that  their  sum 
may  be  arrived  at,  may  be  answered  by  saying  that  it  has 
been  agreed  upon  to  regard  as  equal  those  amounts  of 
energy  which  arise  from  an  amount  of  definite  form  of 
energy  taken  as  unit  {motor  energy  has  been  chosen  for  this 
purpose),  or  which  change  into  this  unit.  This  looks  very 
much  like  a  petitio  principii,  for  if  we  call  the  amounts  aris- 
ing from  the  transformation  alike,  then  the  sum  of  the 
amounts  of  energy  so  measured  must  naturally  be  constant 
under  all  transformations.  However,  it  is  here  a  question 
not  only  of  a  formal  determination  of  this  kind,  but  of  an 
actual  natural  law  which  arises  from  the  following  considera- 

1:834] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

tion.  Given  three  forms  of  energy.  A,  B,  and  C,  assume 
that  we  next  change  the  unit  amount  of  A  into  B  and  define 
the  amount  obtained  thereby  as  the  unit  of  energy  B.  We 
then  transform  this  unit  into  the  third  form  C,  and  again 
define  the  amount  thus  got  as  the  unit  of  the  form  of  energy 
C  We  can,  in  the  third  place,  however,  transform  the  unit 
amount  from  A,  instead  of  passing  by  way  of  B,  directly  into 
the  unit  amount  C,  and  the  empirical  law  which  thus  comes  to 
light  reads  that  one  gets  in  this  direct  way  exactly  the  same 
amount  of  the  energy  C  as  one  would  have  got  through  both 
steps  from  A  to  B  and  from  B  to  C.  If  one  adds  still  a 
fourth  form  of  energy,  D,  there  are  not  merely  two  different 
ways,  but  six  of  them.  In  which  one  may  transform  the  unit 
amount  A  Into  the  amount  D;  and  experience  also  shows  in 
this  case  that  one  always  gets  the  same  amount  D  from  the 
unit  A  in  whatsoever  way  the  transformation  may  be  un- 
dertaken. Hence  can  be  formulated  the  general  natural 
law  that  the  amounts  of  any  kind  of  energy  that  are  got 
from  any  other  kind  are  not  only  determined  by  this  first  and 
last  form,  but  show  themselves  to  be  in  no  wise  dependent 
on  the  intermediate  forms  nor  on  the  multiplicity  of  ways  in 
which  the  transformation  results.  This  is  the  real  content 
of  the  law  of  conservation  of  energy,  and  this  content  finds 
its  shortest  expression  when  one  attributes  to  each  form  of 
energy  its  value  in  the  way  described  In  reference  to  the 
unit  of  an  amount  of  energy  taken  as  normal,  and  calculates 
with  this  value  as  with  real  quantities  which  can  be  added 
and  divided  without  losing  any  part  of  their  value  on  account 
of  the  manner  of  their  arrangement  or  origin. 

It  is  not  necessary  for  the  general  observations  which  we 
have  undertaken  here  to  consider  the  different  forms  of 
energy  which  exist.  It  will  be  well,  perhaps,  only  to  say  that 
the  old  division  of  physics  into  mechanics,  acoustics,  optics, 

1:835:] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

electricity,  and  heat  can  no  longer  be  considered  as  logical. 
In  the  first  place,  acoustics  is  a  part  of  mechanics,  as  has  long 
been  known,  even  though,  of  course,  thermic  phenomena  do 
not  play  an  unimportant  role  in  it;  then,  on  the  other  hand, 
optical  phenomena  have  been  recognized  as  a  part  of  electro- 
magnetic effects  at  a  distance,  and  the  most  recent  develop- 
ments of  this  science  even  make  mechanics  appear  as  a  part 
of  electromagnetism,  while  at  the  same  time  a  new  electric 
theory  of  chemical  action,  at  least  in  its  initial  phase,  has 
been  noticed.  It  would,  therefore,  appear  at  present  as  if 
we  should  be  able  to  trace  all  other  forms  of  energy  back  to 
electric— or,  more  exactly  expressed,  to  electromagnetic- 
energy.  However,  development  in  this  sense  is  only  just  in 
its  most  elementary  stage,  and  therefore  it  cannot  yet  be 
stated  with  a  sufficient  degree  of  certainty  whether  the  way 
that  has  just  been  pointed  out,  that  would  also  conduce  to 
the  inward  unity  of  the  various  forms  of  energy,  can  really 
be  followed  to  the  end.  It  is  not  impossible  that  the  position 
of  the  electric  theory  of  all  physical  phenomena  in  the  course 
of  half  a  century  or  so  will  be  similar  to  that  of  the  mechan- 
ical theory  of  all  physical  phenomena  at  present,  namely, 
that  it  will  demonstrate  itself  ultimately  as  unfeasible. 

Finally,  we  should  not  fail  to  mention  just  here  that 
the  various  forms  of  energy  are  not  to  be  looked  upon  as 
ideas  placed  in  a  higher  order,  but  rather  as  collateral,  new, 
complex  ideas  in  this  field.  For  this  can  be  assigned  only 
the  partial  reason  that  the  forms  of  energy  that  have  been 
traditionally  taken  together  in  physics  show  a  closer  relation- 
ship to  each  other  than  to  chemical  energy,  which,  owing  to 
the  excessive  variety  of  its  phenomena,  has  for  several  cen- 
turies developed  as  a  special  science  as  compared  with  physi- 
cal phenomena,  and  shows  also  certain  fundamental  new 
variations.    Whereas,  for  example,  it  is  a  matter  of  indiffer- 

[836] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

ence  in  electrostatics  whether  a  conductor  of  any  definite 
form— for  instance,  in  the  form  of  a  ball  which  is  a  meter 
in  diameter— be  made  of  tin  or  gold,  of  iron  or  lead  (for 
electrostatic  capacity  depends  only  upon  the  form  and  en- 
vironment of  the  conductor,  not  upon  its  special  nature),  for 
the  chemist  the  various  balls  just  mentioned  are  absolutely 
different  objects,  and  in  his  eyes  are  endowed  with  the  char- 
acteristics of  mutual  untransformability  and  lasting  differ- 
ence. For  as  regards  chemistry  before  the  present  time,  the 
law  of  the  conservation  of  elements  has  been  as  valid  as  the 
law  of  the  conservation  of  volume  is  for  mechanics.  But 
the  same  investigations  that  cause  the  law  regarding  the 
conservation  of  volume  to  be  viewed  only  from  what  must 
be  admitted  frequently  as  a  complicated  special  case  of  a 
general  law,  have  also  led  us  to  view  the  law  of  the  conser- 
vation of  elements  as  a  very  general  law  whose  conditions, 
so  far  as  the  occurrences  known  down  to  a  decade  ago  were 
concerned,  had  always  been  fulfilled,  while  the  facts  which 
have  been  observed  recently  in  connection  with  radioactive 
substances  lead  to  the  establishment  of  exceptions  to  this 
law.  We  are,  therefore,  led  to  conclude  that  there  are 
some  more  general  laws,  as  special  cases  of  which  these  par- 
ticular laws  of  conservation  appear,  which,  however,  under 
certain  conditions  and  hypotheses,  also  permit  a  non-con- 
servation, possibly  a  mutual  transformation,  of  such  quasi- 
substantial  qualities. 

If  we  now  undertake  to  prove  the  proposition  just  laid 
down,  that  the  laws  of  the  more  general  sciences  everywhere 
and  in  every  detail  must  be  true  of  the  laws  of  the  higher  and 
more  special  sciences,  we  are  able  to  convince  ourselves 
readily  that  it  must  be  so  throughout.  That  we  cannot  treat 
of  all  the  physical  and  energetical  sciences  without  logic  is  a 
statement  which  is  so  trivial  that  one  almost  hesitates  to 

1:837:1 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

express  It;  however,  It  must  be  mentioned  here  for  the  sake 
of  completeness,  and  also  for  the  reason  that  the  position  of 
logic  as  the  most  general  of  all  sciences— more  general,  In 
fact,  than  mathematics— Is  by  no  means  commonly  known 
and  recognized,  although  for  a  decade  I  have  pleaded  for 
this  point  of  view,  which  Is  so  fundamental  as  far  as  method 
is  concerned.  It  is  also  just  as  much  a  matter  of  common 
knowledge  with  us  that  we  have  to  apply  mathematics  and 
geometry,  and  finally  kinematics,  to  all  the  phenomena  of 
energetical  happenings.  It  is  well  known  to  every  one  ac- 
quainted with  the  history  of  these  sciences,  that  especially 
the  introduction  of  mathematical  and  geometrical  methods 
into  the  treatment  of  physical  phenomena  has  brought  with 
It  enormous  progress  In  our  comprehension  and  treatment 
of  them.  Does  not  quite  an  appreciable  proportion  of  our 
highly  developed  technical  knowledge  of  to-day  rest  upon 
the  fact  that  w^e  have  learned  to  apply  number  and  measure 
to  the  various  physical  phenomena,  and  hence  to  foresee  the 
results  of  certain  constructions  and  combinations,  so  that 
they  may  be  exactly  determined,  not  only  In  respect  to  kind, 
but  also  as  regards  amount?  The  construction  of  all  mod- 
ern machinery  rests  in  fact,  as  we  have  seen,  upon  a  know- 
ledge of  mechanics  and  thermodynamics.  Electrotechnlcs, 
too,  which  has  begun  to  transform  our  outward  life  so  suc- 
cessfully, and  whose  influence  upon  this  transformation  Is  by 
no  means  terminated  as  yet,  has  been  completely  developed 
upon  a  mathematical-geometrical  basis  laid  so  successfully 
and  deeply  by  the  geniuses  of  electrical  theory,  from  Ohm 
through  Faraday  and  Maxwell  to  Hertz  and  the  Inves- 
tigators of  to-day.  In  this  very  department  of  the  physical 
sciences,  more  clearly  than  in  any  other  province  of  know- 
ledge, is  shown  the  extraordinary  assistance  that  the  sys- 
tematic Introduction  of  the  earlier  and  more  general  sciences 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

has  brought  with  it  into  the  Investigation  of  the  higher  and 
more  special  sciences.  As  a  most  Impressive  example  of 
recent  times  physical  chemistry  may  be  mentioned,  which 
also  rests  upon  this  kind  of  application  of  the  more  general 
mathematical  and  physical  concept  formations  to  the  phe- 
nomena of  chemistry,  through  the  operation  of  which  prob- 
lems have  been  solved  in  a  few  years  which  the  usual 
method  of  investigation  In  vogue  up  to  that  time,  that  clung 
more  to  the  Immediate  phenomenon  and  took  no  considera- 
tion of  any  further  means  of  assistance,  could  not  have 
touched  In  a  hundred  years. 

We  have  now  noted  what  Is  most  essential  regarding  this 
second  stratum  of  the  sciences,  and  we  have  yet  to  call  atten- 
tion to  the  fact  that  the  variety  in  this  field  may  easily  be 
surveyed  synthetically  by  means  of  conjoining  the  various 
kinds  of  energy.  Within  the  range  of  all  the  physical  sci- 
ences the  legitimacy  of  each  single  kind  of  energy  must  first 
be  established.  Then  each  one  of  these  kinds  of  energy  must 
be  combined  binarily  with  each  of  the  others,  whereby  new 
localities  result  from  their  reciprocal  action.  Thus,  for 
example,  the  characteristics  of  vapors  have  been  investi- 
gated, on  the  one  hand,  by  the  theory  of  heat;  and,  on  the 
other  hand,  one  could  apply  to  them  the  mechanical  laws 
studied  In  gases.  By  means  of  the  combination  of  the  laws 
of  mechanics  and  heat  thermodynamics  arose,  the  science 
which  has  taught  us  the  nature  of  the  agent  so  Important  to 
steam-engines,  upon  which  the  whole  enormous  development 
of  the  corresponding  technical  science  of  the  present  rests. 
To  the  binary  combinations  of  two  forms  of  energy  the 
ternary  must  be  added,  and  so  forth,  until  all  the  combina- 
tions possible  have  been  exhaustively  worked  over.  By 
means  of  this  seemingly  outward  manipulation,  but  one 
which  is  in  fact  fundamentally  scientific,  not  only  a  complete 

C8393 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

diagram  of  all  the  possible  and  conceivable  disciplines  of 
physical  science  can  be  constructed,  but  one  may  even  predict 
to  a  considerable  extent  what  forms  the  special  laws  will 
assume  In  the  various  columns  of  this  table.  Moreover,  a 
diagram  of  this  kind  makes  possible  the  Immediate  drawing 
of  conclusions  In  case  a  form  of  energy  Is  discovered  which 
has  not  been  previously  observed.  One  has  to  bring  this 
new  kind  of  energy,  X,  as  a  new  member  Into  the  whole 
calculation  or  combination  with  the  pre-existing  kinds  of 
energy,  and  to  form  again  as  a  consequence,  after  having 
determined  their  laws  by  the  combination  of  X  with  the 
energies  A,  B,  C,  etc.,  a  group  of  binary,  and  later,  as 
has  been  described,  a  group  of  ternary  and  of  more  highly 
complicated  fields,  by  working  through  which  one  may 
be  certain  of  exhausting  methodically  all  the  physical  dis- 
ciplines that  permit  of  survey  down  to  that  moment.  Such  a 
situation  is  so  highly  desirable  and  valuable  that  under  all 
circumstances  we  should  do  everything  possible  lying  within 
the  range  of  science  to  attain  to  it. 

An  especially  Instructive  example  of  this  scientific  process 
of  extension  by  means  of  the  inclusion  of  the  ideas  already 
derived  from  the  earlier  and  more  general  sciences  is  pre- 
sented by  the  most  recent  development  of  chemistry  in  re- 
spect also  to  the  application  of  the  ideas  of  time  and  space 
to  special  chemical  problems.  The  incorporation  of  the 
time  idea  in  chemical  phenomena  led  to  the  great  field  of 
chemical  kinetics,  which  has  borne  fruits  so  abundant,  and 
in  which,  in  spite  of  the  short  duration  of  its  previous  scien- 
tific existence,  progress  so  noteworthy  has  been  made,  both 
from  a  theoretical  and  from  a  technical  standpoint.  It 
need  only  be  mentioned  that  it  was  in  this  field  alone  that 
the  phenomenon  of  catalysis,  which  had  been  known  for  a 
century,  was  able  to  attain  a  logical  explanation.    As  to  the 

1:840: 


''  -*•   *-■;  ■>  ^-'f- 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

application  of  the  idea  of  space  to  chemical  phenomena,  we 
need  only  mention  stereochemistry,  which  at  the  present  time 
also  represents  a  science  that  has  arisen  only  in  the  last 
decade,  but  which  already  has  a  wide  range  of  application, 
and  in  which  the  idea  of  the  multiplicity  of  space  has  been 
successfully  applied  for  clearing  up  chemical  diversities, 
especially  isometrical  relationships.  Here,  too,  it  has  been 
possible,  by  carrying  out  logically  the  basic  idea,  to  make  a 
great  number  of  chemical  prophecies  which  later  experi- 
mental investigation  has  confirmed  down  to  the  smallest 

details. 

We  now  turn  to  the  last  group  of  sciences,  whose  ideas  are 
the  most  complicated  and  therefore  the  smallest  in  scope  but 
richest  in  content.  This  group  arises  from  the  fact  that  to 
the  ideas  that  we  have  thus  far  arrived  at  in  the  field  of 
order  and  energy,  that  of  life  is  added.  By  phenomena  of 
life  we  understand  very  definite  transformations  of  energy 
by  virtue  of  which  the  objects  in  question— the  living  beings 
—  accomplish  a  continuous  transformation  of  free  energy, 
consumed  either  in  the  form  of  chemical  food,  as  in  the  case 
of  animals,  or  in  the  form  of  the  radioactive  energy  of  the 
sun,  as  in  the  case  of  plants.  Over  and  above  this  continuous 
or  stationary  transformation  of  energy  they  are  distin- 
guished, moreover,  by  the  capacity  for  reproduction— f.^., 
the  production  of  new  similar  types,  by  means  of  which  in- 
dividual mortality  of  single  members  has  been  transformed 
through  time  and  space  into  a  disproportionately  longer  con- 
tinuation of  the  species,  the  totality  of  similar  individuals. 
Thus  in  connection  with  the  scientific  examination  of  life  we 
have  to  presuppose  for  its  ideological  comprehension  and 
definition  the  totality  of  the  sciences  of  order  and  the  entirety 
of  the  physicochemical  or  energetical  sciences.  In  so  far, 
therefore,  we  shall  have  to  say  that  every  living  being  is  an 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

energetical  type,  and  that  all  the  laws  that  we  have  found 
for  such  a  being  must  find  their  legitimate  application  to 
living  beings.     We  shall  have  to  say,  furthermore,  that  a 
new  conception  has  appeared  here,-that  of  life,-which  is 
characterized  by  stationary  transformation  of  energy   as 
well  as  by  the  capacity  of  reproduction,  and  concerning  which 
we  cannot  maintain  that  it  can  be  completely  defined  by 
general  physicochemical  laws.     For  we  are  quite  in  a  posi- 
tion to  differentiate  experimentally  living  beings  from  those 
without  life,  and  this  fact  alone  suffices  to  prove  that  new 
relationships  have  appeared  in  connection  with  this  narrow 
group  of  things,  the  ideological  comprehension  of  which 
gives  the  scientific  definition  of  life.    Hence  we  shall  have  to 
consider  every  living  being  as  a  physicochemical  object,  in  so 
far  as  nothing  can  occur  in  this  object  that  does  not  take 
place  within  the  compass  of  the  energetical  laws.     But  we 
shall  have  to  consider  animals  as  formations  of  a  special 
kind  in  so  far  as  certain  peculiarities  belong  to  them  which 
are  by  no  means  present  in  all  energetical  objects,  and  which, 
therefore,  render  necessary  special  treatment  and  scientific 

discussion  of  them. 

The  science  of  living  beings  we  term  in  general  biology, 
and  we  divide  this  whole  discipline  into  single  groups  accord- 
ing to  the  special  kind  of  life  activity,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
according  to  the  increasing  intricacy  of  the  entire  organiza- 
tion of  the  living  being.  The  most  general  characteristics  and 
relationships  which  occur  in  all  living  beings,  and  take  on  a 
one-sided'and  specific  development  only  in  the  case  of  certain 
ones,  according  to  special  forms  and  purposes,  we  treat  in 
the  form  of  a  whole  science  bearing  the  name  of  physiology. 
In  the  very  first  place,  it  is  a  question  here  of  physicochemi- 
cal  conformity  to  law.  The  special  characteristic  of  physico- 
chemical  happening  in  the  living  being  must  be  shown  here 

1:8423 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

in  detail  and  explained  experimentally;  and,  inversely,  the 
physicochemical  hypotheses  must  be  found  regarding  the 
activity  of  all  specific  happenings  in  living  beings,  their  single 
functions.  Thus  the  principles  of  division  which  were  deter- 
mining for  the  energetical  sciences  make  themselves  felt 
also  as  secondary  reasons  for  division  in  physiology,  and  the 
corresponding  groups  have  also  been  formed  already  in  this 
science,  such  as  electrophysiology,  mechanical  physiology, 
chemical  physiology,  etc. 

A  special  apparatus  in  connection  with  which  new  kinds  of 
phenomena  arise,  which  have  led,  therefore,  to  new  forma- 
tions of  concepts,  is  not  found  in  all  living  beings,  but  only  in 
those  in  which  a  division  of  functions  has  taken  place,  and 
hence  in  which  the  necessity  exists  for  uniting  these  divided 
functions  for  the  purpose  of  harmonious  and  suitable  work- 
ing. This  is  the  nervous  system,  which  in  the  case  of  the 
more  highly  developed  animals  is  grouped  about  a  central 
organ  which,  as  we  ascend  the  scale,  is  formed  in  a  more  and 
more  complicated  and  abundant  way,  until  It  reaches  its  high- 
est development  in  man.  The  special  relations  that  occur 
in  the  function  of  this  central  organ  are  what  form  the  sub- 
ject of  this  higher  and  more  special  science  of  life,  which, 
from  the  name  for  the  totality  of  this  function  in  man,  we 
call  psychology.  Here,  also,  we  shall  have  the  same  things 
to  say  about  general  biology,  namely,  that  for  the  investiga- 
tion of  psychological  relationships  in  lower  and  in  higher 
living  beings,  finally  in  man,  the  knowledge  and  efficacy  of 
physicochemical  as  well  as  of  general  biological  laws  must  in 
all  cases  be  presupposed,  and  that  here  it  is  only  a  question 
of  specializing  the  mode  of  operation  of  these  laws  accord- 
ing to  the  special  conditions  under  which,  in  the  first  place, 
nervous  phenomena — in  a  narrower  sense,  psychic  phenom- 
ena—occur.    Since  these  psychic  phenomena  also  presup- 

1:843] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 
pose  energetical  happenings,  even  occurrences  in  connection 
w  h  ponderable  substances  which  are  endowed  w.th  chem  - 
cal  energy,  we  must  consider  them  of  course  as  energetical 
occurrences,  and  the  old  problem  of  the  connect.on  between 
mind  and  matter  attains  a  satisfying  systematic  solution  in 
the  light  of  the  general  system  of  science  here  described 
Psychic  phenomena,  in  the  next  place,  must  be  considered  as 
resting  upon  a  definite  energetical  basis.    W.thm  th.s  hm.t 
however,  they  are  specialized  by  peculiarities  connected  with 
the  function  of  the  nerve  tracks  and  central  organs 

Finally,  an  uppermost  layer  of  this  pyramid  of  sciences 
is    formed   by   those   facts    and   relationships   which   have 
developed  in  man,  in  contradistinction  to  all  other  animals, 
and  which  form  that  which  we  specifically  call  human  avrhza- 
uon      This  science  is  usually  designated  by  the  improper 
name  of  ^odology.    The  name  is  due  to  the  fact  that  man, 
even  in  the  very  early  stages  of  his  development  has  unques- 
tionably  been  a  social  being,  so  that,  for  much  the  greater 
part,  specifically  human  culture  has  shown  itsdf  to  be  the 
culture  of  groups  of  people  living  together  socially  and  busy- 
ing themselves  in  common.    This  special  nature  of  human 
culture,  however,  is  relatively  a  secondary  phenomenon ;  and 
it  is,  moreover,  not  entirely  general,  for  certain  cultural  per- 
formances have  been,  and  can  in  the  future  be,  accomplished 
by  a  single  individual.    Thus,  socializing  mankind  is  an  im- 
portant phenomenon  in  this  field;  indeed,  it  is  one  of  the 
most  important,  but  not  the  characteristic  and  ""'versd  one. 
I  proposed,  therefore,  a  long  while  ago  to  call  the  field  in 
question  the  science  of  civilization,  or  culturology  {Kidturo- 
logie)      And  though  it  is  not  my  opinion  that  anything  ot 
very  great  importance  for  science  depends  upon  the  accept- 
ance or  refusal  of  this  proposal,  I  think,  nevertheless,  that  m 
the  present  indefinite  situation  in  which  the  science  of  civili- 

[8443 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

zation,  or  sociology,  finds  itself  as  regards  its  general  prin- 
ciples  and  its  place  within  the  field  of  the  other  sciences  as 
compared  with  the  generality  of  them,  a  sharper  emphasis 
of  this  kind  on  the  essential  feature  of  this  new  science  might 

be  of  some  benefit. 

To  culturology,  or  the  science  of  civilization,  numerous 
sciences  belong  which  we  are  accustomed  to  include  under 
the  name  of  mental  sciences,  the  retrocedent  nature  of  which, 
to  express  it  in  terms  of  method,  we  have  already  discussed 
and  explained  above.     Law  and  language,  administration 
and  agriculture,  industry  and  science,  religion  and  art,  are 
all  merely  different  forms  of  activity  proper  to  the  general 
cultural  work  of  humanity.    Any  investigation  of  them  must, 
therefore,  take  the  direction  of  applying  the  laws  of  the  cor- 
responding occurrences  from  what  the  historical  knowledge 
of  earlier  phases  and  the  anthropological  examination  of 
contemporaneous  phases  of  less  developed  peoples  and  of 
other  groups  of  human  culture  has  placed  at  our  disposal,  in 
order  to  determine  thereby  the  present  nkeau  of  a  given 
field  of  culture  and  its  prospective  development.    What  we 
call  politics  in  its  wider  sense,  not  only  the  relations  of  one 
state  to  another,  but  the  general  technique  of  the  administra- 
tion of  common  possessions  and  the  education  of  coming 
generations  for  the  corresponding  activities  of  the  commu- 
nity,-this  wider  kind  of  politics,  including  the  politics  of 
civilization,  shows  itself  under  this  aspect  to  be  the  field  of 
application  for  scientific  culturology  or  sociology;  and,  speak- 
ing ideally,  through  the  development  of  this  latter  science 
in  the  future  politics  should  be  formed  and  conducted  with 
the  same  certainty  and  precision  with  which  we  build  at  pres- 
ent an  iron  bridge  or  a  station  and  understand  how  to  direct 
an  electrical  or  steam  plant  of  so  many  thousand  horse- 
power and  keep  it  going. 

[845: 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Culturology,  appearing  thus  as  the  topmost  course  of  the 
pyramid  of  the  sciences,  shows  itself  from  the  point  of  view 
of  method  also  to  be  the  most  diverse  and  many-sided  of  the 
sciences.  For  all  of  the  more  general  sciences,  logic, 
mathematics,  geometry,  and  kinematics,  as  well  as  all  the 
energetical  sciences,  and  finally  general  physiology  and  psy- 
chology, have  each  its  influence  upon  the  formation  of 
culturological  ideas.  A  sure  mastery  of  at  least  the  funda- 
mental principles  of  all  the  sciences  that  I  have  just  men- 
tioned is  therefore  a  necessary  presupposition  for  the 
scientific  mastery  of  culturological  problems.  If  one  consid- 
ers that  science  of  the  twentieth  century,  even,  is  far  from 
enjoying  a  sufficient  development  of  them,  especially  of  the 
biological  sciences,  and  that  the  application  of  the  sciences 
of  order  to  cultural  science  has  already  made  some  progress 
(especially  in  the  sphere  of  political  economy  and  in  its  tech- 
nical application— statistics),  one  realizes  that  the  applica- 
tion of  the  energetical  sciences  to  the  science  of  culture  has 
almost  been  mapped  out  provisorily  in  its  fundamentals. 
Still  less  can  there  be  any  question  of  a  rational  general 
application  of  biological  theories  to  the  science  of  culture,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  tentative  efforts  in  that  direction  have 
already  been  made. 

Thus  one  sees  with  what  an  enormous  problem  we  are 
confronted,  one  that  is  scarcely  to  be  compassed  with  our 
present  resources;  and  it  is  quite  comprehensible  if  the  work- 
ings of  previous  mental  sciences,  which  have  not  been  able  to 
await  the  systematic  development  of  concept  formation  in 
the  lower  sciences  that  are  so  necessary  for  any  rational 
treatment,  leave  so  very  much  to  be  desired  at  the  present 
time  on  the  side  of  scientific  method.  In  the  field  of  cul- 
turology it  is  still  almost  universally  a  question  of  the 
technical  period  of  science,  for  nearly  all  of  the  special  cul- 

CM] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

turological  sciences  are  at  present  only  in  the  stage  of  their 
own  development  determined  by  practical  necessity.  In  this 
connection,  I  need  only  remind  you  of  the  present  condition 
of  jurisprudence,  which  shows  precisely  the  characteristic 
forms  of  development  which  have  been  outlined  here.  Man- 
kind has  not  been  able  to  wait  until  the  twenty-first  or  twenty- 
second  century,  at  which  time  it  will  perhaps  be  in  possession 
of  a  pure  or  methodic  culturology,  to  bring  its  affairs  to  such 
order  that  it  might  keep  the  body  politic  alive  and  capable  of 
functioning.  In  the  very  same  way,  mankind  has  not  been 
able  to  await  the  development  of  physiological  chemistry  in 
order  to  procure  and  prepare  the  food  inevitably  demanded 
day  by  day  in  order  to  preserve  life.  Thus,  jurisprudence  of 
the  present  is  nothing  but  a  most  unsystematic  sum  of  all  pre- 
vious attempts  made  by  especially  endowed  empiricists  to 
preserve  the  social  and  scientific  order  of  a  community  of 
persons.  The  idea  is  very  far  from  the  mind  of  the  jurists  of 
the  present,  that  all  the  problems  relating  to  jurisprudence 
must  first  be  illuminated  with  the  fundamental  principles  of 
the  physical  or  energetical  sciences  in  order  to  place  it  upon 
an  exact  basis.  If,  however,  one  considers,  for  example,  how 
exceedingly  irrational  our  present  criminal  laws  and  peno- 
logical procedure  are,  based  almost  entirely  upon  impris- 
onment, how  by  this  process  society  is  neither  freed  per- 
manently from  the  evil-doer,  nor  is  the  latter  placed  under 
conditions  in  which  he  gives  up  as  far  as  possible  his  anti- 
social habits  and  replaces  them  with  social  ones,  one  realizes 
what  an  enormous  amount  of  work  yet  remains  to  be  done 
in  this  field  before  we  shall  be  able  to  speak  of  a  real,  scien- 
tific theory  of  law. 

The  same  thing  can  be  said  of  language,  which  represents 
the  most  important  social  means  of  communication,  and 
whose  duty  it  is  to  render  the  mental  concepts  of  individual 

r847] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

persons  accessible  to  other  members  of  society,  and  then, 
by  means  of  written  characters,  to  insure  their  effectiveness 
for  posterity  over  and  beyond  the  life  of  their  creator.  This 
conception  of  language  as  a  means  of  communication,  and 
the  criticism  of  language  resulting  therefrom,  according  to 
the  standpoint  of  its  technical  adaptability  to  the  exact,  un- 
equivocal, and  sufficiently  complete  expression  of  the  ideas 
formed  by  each  individual,  as  well  as  to  the  transference  of 
ideas  from  one  individual  to  others,— this  conception  of 
language,  I  say,  does  not  yet  play  the  slightest  role  in  the 
science  of  language.  Instead  of  properly  envisaging  what  is 
essential  in  phenomena  of  this  kind,— the  ideas,  their  co-ordi- 
nation and  system,  — and  making  them  the  subject  of  scien- 
tific work,  linguistics  had  heretofore  limited  itself  almost 
exclusively  to  the  most  unimportant  and  least  necessary  of 
the  whole  phenomenon,  namely,  to  the  forms,  in  sounds  and 
characters,  which  have  been  co-ordinated  with  the  precon- 
ceived ideas.  The  extraordinary  diversity  of  the  various 
languages  certainly  shows  clearly  how  very  unimportant  the 
special  forms  employed  by  single  groups  of  people  are  for 
what  is  essential  in  language— social  intercourse.  Neverthe- 
less, what  has  heretofore  been  called  linguistic  science  con- 
fines itself  almost  entirely  to  the  investigation  of  the  nature, 
or  at  most  to  the  investigation  of  the  slow  changes  which 
these  accidentally  co-ordinated  characters  have  undergone; 
while  practically  no  attention  at  all  has  been  given  to  an  in- 
vestigation of  concept  formation,  to  a  system  of  the  ideas 
themselves,  to  the  question  as  to  what  classes  of  ideas  there 
are,  in  what  way  simple  and  compound  concepts  react  upon 
one  another  when  combined— in  a  word,  to  the  problem 
of  the  science  of  concept  formation.  So  we  need  not 
be  surprised  that  the  fact  is  known  to  but  few  people  that  at 
the  present  time  the  technical  problem  of  an  artificial  Ian- 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

guage  which  is  more  complete  than  any  natural  one  has 
already  been  solved.  It  is  of  special  interest  to  note  that  the 
possibility  of  such  a  thing  is  most  emphatically  denied  by 
the  representatives  of  previous  pseudollngulstic  science,  the 
philologists,  though  facts  for  years  have  proved  the  con- 
trary. 

If  we  glance  back  over  the  observations  thus  far  made,  we 
become  aware  that  all  of  the  sciences,  taken  together,  repre- 
sent an  absolutely  coherent  complex,   ascending  from  the 
simplest  to  the  most  Involved,  but  exhibiting  at  every  point 
the  same  course  and  the  same  character  of  progress,  and 
consequently  give  no  occasion  at  all  for  any  delimitation  of 
the  frontiers  of  opposing  fields  as  regards  one  another.     It 
Is  therefore  absolutely  Incorrect  to  separate,  as  Is  often  done, 
the  entire  field  of  human  sciences  Into  two  groups  which 
have  little  or  nothing  to  do  with  each  other,  and  whose 
functions  are  fundamentally  different.    Regarding  the  group 
of  the  natural  sciences  there  Is  complete  agreement.    Other 
sciences,  however,  which  were  formerly  termed  mental  sci- 
ences, were  set  over  against  them.     Afterward  one  neces- 
sarily became  convinced  that  the  natural  sciences,  too,  — for 
example,  psychology,— had  to  do  with  mind,  and  that  mind, 
therefore,  was  no  special  distinctive  mark  of  this  other  de- 
partment of  knowledge.     Then  It  was  thought  that  the 
science  of  civilization  must  be  placed  In  contrast  with  natural 
science,  but  It  soon  became  evident  that  cultural  phenomena 
form  a  group  (and  indeed  the  highest)  of  natural  phenom- 
ena.    It  Is  unreasonable  and  Impracticable  to  consider  the 
activity  of  man  In  his  surroundings  as  ^'unnatural,"  as  com- 
pared with  the  activity  of  animals  and  plants.     Finally,  the 
sciences  of  this  special  group  were  called  sciences  of  voli- 
tion, because  they  rest  upon  the  activity  of  the  human  will. 
This  difference  Is  not  practicable,  either,   for  without  the 

1:8493 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

corresponding  Impulses  of  the  will,  which  have  been 
prompted  by  the  exigencies  of  existence,  no  one  would  have 
busied  himself  either  with  the  theoretical  or  with  the  applied 
sciences. 

So  there  remains  in  fact  no  possibility  of  making  an  essen- 
tial distinction,  and  only  the  historical  difference  exists  that 
the  treatment  of  the  higher  sciences  heretofore  has  been 
largely  carried  on  with  inadequate  means  and  without  any 
information  as  to  the  real  aim  of  all  sciences,  namely,  the 
ability  to  predict.  It  Is  true  that  from  this  situation  a  con- 
tradiction has  arisen  which  is  destined,  however,  to  disap- 
pear and  will  disappear  all  the  more  rapidly  and  all  the  more 
surely  in  proportion  as  the  scientists  in  all  the  various  fields 
become  aware  of  the  unalterable  unity  of  all  science.  This 
unity  of  science  leads  us  also  to  a  great  central  problem,  for 
the  solution  of  which  the  representatives  and  incumbents  of 
all  the  various  sciences  must  co-operate. 

This  problem  Is  to  establish  a  systematic  inventory  of  all 
human  ideas  upon  the  basis  of  the  fundamental  relations  of 
Increasing  multiplicity  and  complexity  that  have  just  been 
explained  in  proportion  to  decrease  in  compass.  Our  preced- 
ing analysis  of  all  knowledge  has  led  us  to  see  that  som.e  of 
these  Ideas,  like  those  of  order,  of  energy,  and  of  life,  stand 
out  with  especial  clearness  from  the  entire  range  of  thought. 
But  these  ideas  are  all  of  a  complex  nature,  and  it  is  an  in- 
evitable necessity  for  the  sure  handling  of  the  entire  scheme 
of  all  the  sciences  that  one  should  separate  these  very  Im- 
portant collective  ideas  into  their  elements  and  arrange  these 
elements  in  corresponding  natural  groups  according  to 
similarity  and  reciprocal  efficiency. 

This  is  a  work  the  necessity  of  which  was  clearly  recog- 
nized even  by  Leibnitz.  We  have  from  his  pen  numerous 
discussions  of  the  extraordinary  advantages  which  the  hu- 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

man  mind  could  derive  from  such  an  inventory  of  all  its 
material  for  thought.  But  I  am  not  aware  that  Leibnitz 
ever  made  the  attempt  to  draw  up  a  table  of  elementary  con- 
cepts and  to  sketch,  even  schematically,  the  laws  of  their 
mutual  effect  in  the  formation  of  new  ideas.  I  myself  have 
been  working  on  this  problem  for  ten  years,  without,  how- 
ever, having  made  up  to  the  present  moment  so  extensive 
progress  that  I  could  give  a  consistent  presentation  of  the 
entire  matter. 

In  the  course  of  these  labors,  however,  certain  points  have 
been  brought  out  as  well  as  could  be  wished.     There  is,  in 
the  first  place,  the  process  of  differentiating  simple  concepts 
from  more  complex  ones.    We  recall  the  fundamental  rela- 
tionship between  the  content  and  the  compass  of  the  various 
ideas,  and  are  enabled  to  establish  upon  it  a  means  of  defin- 
ing the  elementary  notions.    When  we  consider  any  idea  and 
vary  it,  seeking  out  some  nearly  related  one,  the  scope  of  this 
related  idea  will  show  itself  to  be  either  greater  or  smaller 
than  that  of  the  original  idea.     If  It  has  become  smaller, 
then  the  related  idea  is  of  a  more  complex  nature  than  the 
original  idea,  and  we  have  undertaken  a  synthesis  instead 
of  an  analysis.    If,  on  the  other  hand,  its  scope  has  become 
greater,  we  have  simplified  the  idea,  it  has  become  more 
elementary.     We  can  apply  the  same  process  to  this  sim- 
plified idea.     If  we  finally  reach  an  idea  which  cannot  in- 
crease any  more  in  scope  by  any  form  of  change,  we  have 
arrived  at  an  idea  which  may  be  regarded,  at  least  pro- 
visionally, as  elementary.     Since  it  resists  further  analysis, 
it  is  entitled  to  a  place  in  the  table  of  elementary  concepts. 

This  process,  as  one  sees,  is  extraordinarily  similar  to  the 
process  of  chemical  analysis.  In  it,  too,  one  proceeds  by 
first  subjecting  a  substance  whose  nature,  whether  it  be  ele- 
mentary or  compound,  has  not  yet  been  established,  to  chem- 


■1 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

ical  influences-f.^.,  one  endeavors  to  transform  it  into 
another  substance  with  other  characteristics.  If  a  single  sec- 
ond substance  with  increased  weight  arises  from  the  sub- 
stance submitted  to  us,  and  if,  under  all  the  conditions  under 
which  it  is  subjected  to  chemical  transformations,  some  other 
sort  of  substance  always  arises  whose  weight  is  greater  than 
that  of  the  original  substance,  then  we  know  that  we  have  to 
do  with  an  elementary  substance.  If,  however,  the  substance 
can  be  transformed  into  others,  each  of  which  weighs  less, 
or  only  one  of  which  weighs  less  than  the  original  substance, 
then  we  know  that  we  have  to  do  with  a  compound  substance. 
If  we  subject  the  product  of  less  weight  thus  arrived  at  to 
similar  transforming  influences,  we  can  establish  in  its  case 
also  whether  it  is  of  an  elementary  or  compound  nature.  In 
other  words,  under  the  supposition  that  a  substance  is  com- 
pound, we  treat  it  from  every  possible  side  with  the  agents 
by  which  chemical  transformation  is  brought  about,  and 
observe  whether  it  increases  or  decreases  in  weight,  and  if 
we  have  a  substance  which  under  all  circumstances  only  in- 
creases in  weight  or  keeps  its  weight  unchanged,  we  have 
proved  its  elementary  nature  sufficiently  well. 

In  this  way  the  scientists  who  have  chosen  as  their  field  of 
labor  the  investigation  of  the  total  problem  of  science 
will  have  to  begin  by  examining  all  concepts  as  to  their  sim- 
ple or  compound  nature,  without  any  reference  to  any  other 
relationships.  From  these  results  is,  then,  to  be  arranged  a 
preliminary  table  of  simple  ideas  which  have  been  found 
thus  purely  empirically.  These  elementary  ideas  are  to  be 
pronounced  elementary  until  their  complexity  is  established, 
just  as  is  the  case  with  the  elements  in  chemistry.  According 
to  the  generally  accepted  definition,  an  element  is  really  not 
an  unanalyzable  substance,  but  a  substance  which  has  not  yet 
been  reduced.    In  the  same  way  we  can  say  that  an  elemen- 

[852] 


i 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

tary  idea  is  not  an  unanalyzable  one,  but  an  idea  which  has 
not  yet  been  analyzed. 

My  previous  work  on  the  arrangement  of  a  table  of  con- 
cept elements  like  this  has  shown  me  that  these  elements 
may  be  divided  into  two  large  groups  of  which  passing 
mention  was  made  earlier  in  our  discussion.  On  the  one 
hand  we  have  the  group  of  substances  or  objects  or  things, 
or  whatever  else  we  wish  to  call  them,  the  group  of  those 
concepts  which  represent  entities  existing  in  themselves, 
which  we  always  find  recurring  in  the  same  way  in  the  range 
of  our  experience,  and  which  have,  as  regards  time,  an  un- 
changeable or  at  least  only  slightly  changeable  nature.  By 
the  side  of  this  group  still  another  group  of  quite  essential 
ideas  is  found,  which  we  term  ideas  of  correlation  or  of 
relation  or  of  reciprocal  action.  They,  too,  represent  quite 
definite  experiences,  but  they  refer  regularly  to  two  or  more 
ideas  of  the  first  kind,  and  are  the  material  by  means  of 
which  the  connection  between  isolated  substances  or  things 
is  brought  about. 

We  realize  at  once  that  the  psychophysical  function  of 
memory  leads  first  to  ideas  of  the  first  kind.  Those  elements 
of  experience  (since  we  are  speaking  here  of  elementary 
ideas)  which  always  affect  us  in  the  same  manner  take  on, 
then,  the  form  of  these  substances  or  objects  in  our  con- 
sciousness, and  independently  of  ourselves  assume  this  char- 
acter of  real  existence  which  we  ascribe  to  our  external 
world.  So  long  as  mental  functions  are  confined  to  the 
formation  of  such  concepts  of  objects  or  substances,  real 
thinking  is  impossible,  since  each  of  these  concepts  leads  its 
own  isolated  existence  and  can  in  no  wise  come  into  connec- 
tion with  the  others.  Just  here  the  experimental  fact  is 
added,  that  we  never  experience  such  concept  elements  in 
isolated  form,  but  in  coherent  complexes  which  even  as  such 

1:8533 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

are  felt  to  be  units  whose  division  Into  elementary  component 
parts  follows  only  by  a  considerable  effort  of  the  mind,  for 
which  a  high  degree  of  maturity  and  independence  of  judg- 
ment is  necessary.  This  results  from  the  fact  of  reciprocal 
connection,  of  the  relation  of  substances  to  one  another. 

Thus  these  mental  relations  in  the  form  of  space  or  of 
time,  or,  to  express  it  in  general  terms,  of  function,  between 
the  different  concept  elements  of  substantial  nature,  form 
quite  an  essential  part  of  our  total  experience.  The  deter- 
mination of  such  relationships  between  substances  on  the 
conceptual  side  has  at  least  as  much  importance  for  our 
entire  mental  activity  as  the  formation  of  the  Idea  of  the 
substance  Itself.  The  association  of  ideas  which  has  been 
characterized  and  studied  for  a  long  time  by  psychologists  is 
only  a  relatively  narrow  expression  for  this  general  function 
of  relationship  which  Is  stamped  upon  our  mind  by  the 
nature  of  its  experiences.  It  represents,  however,  the  best- 
known  part  of  general  Ideas  of  relationship  and  permits  us 
also  to  see  the  circumstances  through  which  these  relative 
ideas  have  been  formed  alongside  of  the  ideas  of  substance. 
Such  ideas  of  relationship,  for  example,  are  "by  the  side  of" 
or  "above"  one  another  in  space,  "earlier"  and  "later"  In 
time,  and  a  number  of  others,  all  of  which  may  be  recognized 
by  the  fact  that  they  never  refer  to  a  single  object,  but  in- 
variably bring  two  or  more  objects  of  different  kinds  into 
mutual  relationship. 

We  recall  from  our  preliminary  description  of  all  science 
that  the  idea  of  group,  namely,  the  relation  or  connection 
between  objects  of  like  nature,  appeared  at  the  very  begin- 
ning of  our  formation  of  Ideas,  and  proved  even  then  to  be 
that  process  by  means  of  which  a  mutual  relationship  arose 
from  Ideas  of  objects  that  until  then  had  been  disconnected, 
and  with  it  also  came  the  possibility  of  establishing  natural 

[854] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

laws.  The  unconscious  work  of  language,  too,  has  clearly 
differentiated  these  two  kinds  of  ideas:  the  object-ideas  are 
characterized  chiefly  by  nouns,  but  also  by  adjectives  and 
other  words,  while  the  ideas  of  relationship  are  expressed 
chiefly  by  verbs.  But  since  language,  as  has  been  mentioned, 
has  arisen  unconsciously— f.^.,  without  a  clear  consciousness 
of  purpose  or  aim — the  two  great  classes  just  referred  to  are 
by  no  means  sharply  distinguished  from  each  other.  For 
surely  freedom  in  usage  has  given  us  on  almost  all  occasions 
the  possibility  of  making  a  verb  of  a  noun,  and,  inversely,  of 
considering  in  a  formal  way  every  verb  as  a  substance-idea  — 
i.e.,  as  a  noun.  But  In  such  matters  it  is  only  a  question  of 
formal  resemblance  to  the  other  group,  whereas  upon  real 
analysis  of  the  content  of  the  Idea  connected  with  the  words 
in  question,  their  character  as  objects  or  as  relationships  can 
almost  always  be  determined  without  difllculty. 

Labors  of  this  kind,  which  presuppose  and  demand  quite 
a  thorough  knowledge  of  concept  formation  in  all  the  sci- 
ences, represent  now  what  I  consider  as  the  real  rational  task 
for  a  future  philosophy,  and  one  which  will  be  useful— yes. 
Indispensable— to  mankind.  According  to  this  view,  philos- 
ophy would  be  the  science  which  is  occupied  with  the  sciences 
as  a  whole  in  reference  to  their  mutual  relations,  their  struc- 
ture, and  their  circumstances.  It  has  the  practical  mission, 
on  the  one  hand,  of  predicting  those  fields  of  knowledge 
which  have  not  been  subjected  as  yet  to  any  systematic  treat- 
ment or  to  treatment  of  any  kind,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  of 
rendering  the  existing  fields  of  knowledge  capable  of  easier 
advancement  and  better  arrangement  through  the  proof  of 
systematic  and  methodical  relationships  to  other  sciences. 
By  the  cultivation  of  this  new  philosophy  it  will  then  be  pos- 
sible to  organize  and  improve  all  functions  of  science  which 
at  present  are  so  imperfect.    The  present  procedure  reminds 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

one  of  the  growth  of  a  primeval  forest,  where  every  single 
tree  develops  on  its  own  account  and  by  its  own  strength,  as 
well  as  it  can,  and  so  far  as  it  finds  light  and  air.  Under  such 
circumstances  splendid  individual  giants  may  grow,  but  only 
at  the  expense  of  numerous  other  trees  which  under  other  cir- 
cumstances could  have  developed  luxuriantly  and  beauti- 
fully, but  which  suffocate  here  under  the  shadow  of  the 
giant.  Future  science  is  more  to  be  likened,  therefore,  to  a 
logically  cultivated  forest  in  which  every  tree  stands  In  its 
own  place,  and  each,  in  proportion  to  its  value,  receives  gen- 
erous attention.  To  employ  another  figure,  we  still  stand  in 
our  present  attitude  toward  science  as  men  stood  toward  the 
problem  of  economics  when  men  were  only  huntsmen,  and 
when  the  acquisition  of  prey,  and  hence  of  food,  was  essen- 
tially a  matter  of  accident  and  of  special  personal  skill.  In 
our  treatment  of  the  sciences  we  wish  to  pass  out  of  this 
primitive  condition  into  a  condition  which  may  be  compared 
to  that  of  men  occupied  with  agriculture,  by  cultivating  regu- 
larly scientific  progress.  Owing  to  the  fact  that  we  prepare 
the  ground  suitably  and  arrange  the  conditions  of  develop- 
ment as  favorably  as  possible,  we  shall  gain,  in  the  place  of 
the  accidental  discoveries,  which  were  at  times  quite  abun- 
dant, but  frequently  extraordinarily  scanty  and  Insufficient,  a 
steady  harvest  which,  to  be  sure.  Is  not  entirely  Independent 
of  the  contingencies  of  external  climatic  conditions,  — in  the 
present  case,  of  the  multiplicity  of  political  and  economical 
conditions  among  men,— but  which  produces  nevertheless, 
with  slight  variations,  year  in  and  year  out,  a  regular,  recur- 
rent harvest  and  assures  therefore  a  rational  and  careful 
collective  science  of  humanity  In  this  greatest  and  most  Im- 
portant field  of  Its  entire  mental  activity. 

An  attentive  reader  has  perhaps  missed  two  things  in  this 
examination  of  all  the  sciences.    First,  a  thorough  consldera- 


I 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

tlon  of  the  applied  sciences  which  are  the  mother  earth  out 
of  which  the  general  sciences  have  sprung.  Furthermore, 
one  may  have  noted  the  complete  non-consideration  of  a  dis- 
cipline which  Is  claiming  at  present  an  extraordinarily  im- 
portant place  in  our  highest  educational  institutions,  the 
universities,  and  the  importance  of  which  is  being  emphasized 
in  a  very  lively  way  on  many  sides— namely,  history. 

As  far  as  the  first  matter  is  concerned,  it  can  be  disposed 
of  quickly  and  easily.  One  readily  sees  that  every  applied 
discipline  has  its  center  of  gravity  in  one  of  the  general  sci- 
ences. Thus  there  is,  for  example,  an  exceedingly  extensive 
and  important  applied  science— astronomy.  This  had  its 
center  of  gravity  until  half  a  century  ago  v/holly  in  mechan- 
ics, for  all  astronomical  phenomena  which  were  then 
observed  and  which  were  essentially  confined  to  the  deter- 
mination of  the  positions  of  moving  stars,  and  of  the  energy 
of  gravitation  by  which  they  are  held  together  In  single 
groups,  like  the  solar  system,  for  example.  With  the  exact 
recognition  of  the  nature  of  these  two  kinds  of  energy,  begun 
by  the  investigations  of  the  sixteenth  century  and  terminated 
fundamentally  by  Newton,  this  astronomy  of  position  be- 
came an  essentially  completed  science.  In  the  case  of  which, 
to  be  sure,  there  was  refinement  and  inner  development,  but 
no  further  extension  on  the  side  of  ideas.  In  the  last  half- 
century,  however,  a  new  and  extraordinarily  far-reaching 
auxiliary  means  has  been  introduced  Into  astronomy  through 
the  discovery  of  spectrum  analysis,  by  means  of  which  other 
fields  of  the  energetical  sciences,  especially  chemistry,  have 
taken  up  their  role  in  the  development  of  astronomy.  In 
this  connection  the  natural  relation  makes  Itself  felt,  that 
geometromechanlcal  astronomy  Is  a  necessary  presupposi- 
tion for  the  Investigation  of  astrophysics  and  astrochemlstry. 
One  must,  of  course,  be  sufficiently  Informed  as  to  the  gen- 


1^ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

eral  questions  of  position  and  motion  before  one  can  attack 
these  more  intricate  problems. 

Thus,  from  this  example  we  see  how  at  first  an  external 
thing  by  its  striking  character  and  its  technical  importance 
(that  of  astronomy  lies  in  its  application  for  getting  our  bear- 
ings upon  the  surface  of  the  earth,  especially  on  the  sea  and 
in  the  desert)  takes  first  those  sciences  into  its  service  whose 
development  has  proceeded  sufficiently  far  for  the  study  and 
explanation  of  fundamental  phenomena.  In  its  further  de- 
velopment it  makes  use  of  all  the  other  sciences  that  can  be 
applied  to  the  existing  relationships,  and  leaves  out  of  con- 
sideration those  sciences  for  which  there  are  no  possibilities 
of  relationship.  The  whole  development  through  which 
astronomy  has  passed  rests  upon  the  fact  that  the  only  news 
that  comes  to  us  from  the  stars  is  transmitted  by  light.  Only 
the  relatively  few  celestial  bodies— namely,  the  planets, 
moons,  and  the  sun— whose  demonstrable  field  of  gravity 
reaches  to  the  earth  and  influences  its  movements,  show  in 
addition  the  influence  of  the  energy  of  gravitation.  The 
entire  sphere  of  the  fixed  stars,  of  cosmic  nebulas,  and  of 
other  formations  in  the  universe  is  so  distant  from  the  earth 
that  any  effect  of  its  fields  of  gravitation  is  in  no  way  demon- 
strable; in  the  case  of  these  there  remains  only  radiance, 
therefore,  by  which  any  energetical  communication  whatever 
takes  place  with  the  earth  and  its  inhabitants.  From  this 
fact  it  may  be  concluded  on  general  principles  that  only  that 
which  light  can  tell  us  can  be  known  by  us  about  the  stars, 
and  that  since  no  other  form  of  energy  travels  from  the  stars 
to  the  earth,  it  is  absolutely  impossible  to  learn  anything 
about  other  energetical  conditions  of  the  stars.  Thus,  for 
example,  we  are  thrown  entirely  upon  conjecture  as  to  how 
biological  processes  may  take  place  on  Mars  or  Jupiter,  for 
instance,  the  confirmation  or  non-confirmation  of  which  is 

[858] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

absolutely  without  importance  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  earth 
in  so  far  as  there  simply  does  not  exist  any  energetical  rela- 
tionship between  the  eventual  characteristics  of  the  neigh- 
boring planets  and  those  of  the  earth.  According  to  general 
principles,  one  may  imagine  that  the  use  of  optical  informa- 
tion from  the  planets  may  be  developed  so  far  that  details  of 
biological  problems  might  also  be  studied,  but  obviously  even 
in  that  case  the  possibility  will  be  considered  that  other  forms 
of  energy,  hitherto  unknown  to  us,  may  be  transmitted  from 
star  to  star,  and  that  we  shall  be  able,  if  we  become  ac- 
quainted with  such  forms  of  energy,  to  deduce  from  them 
corresponding  information,  just  as  we  now  derive  all  the 
information  that  we  receive  from  the  stars  from  the  energy 
of  light. 

Somewhat  different  from  astronomy  as  an  applied  science 
are  the  technical  sciences  proper.    Now,  while  astronomy  is 
busied  with  the  study  of  existing  objects  and  makes  use  of 
their  characteristics  as  basis  for  their  application  without 
being  able  to  influence  and  change  them  in  any  way,  in  the 
sphere  of  technical  sciences  we  have  to  do  with  objects  and 
processes  upon  whose  ordering  in  time  and  space  and  upon 
whose  reciprocal  action  we  are  enabled  to  exercise  consider- 
able influence.    We  use  this  influence,  then,  to  direct  natural 
processes  in  such  a  way  as  may  seem  at  all  advantageous  or 
desirable  to  us.     Man's  mastery  of  nature  means  nothing 
more  than  that  he  takes  possession  in  an  increasing  measure 
of  natural  energies  and  learns  with  increasing  skill  to  exploit 
them  for  his  interests.    At  first  we  see  how  in  regular  succes- 
sion the  energies  best  known  to  man  and  most  familiar  to 
him— namely,  other  men's  capacity  for  work— are  put  to 
use.    This  has  found  expression  especially  in  slavery,  which 
was  general  in  antiquity  and  at  present  is  being  relegated 
more  and  more  to  those  regions  that  are  still  in  a  stage  of 

1:8593 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

barbarism.     Then  the  more  difficult  problem  was  solved— 
the  employment  of  the  capacity  for  work  in  animals  for 
human  needs.     The  more  recent  phase  of  this  general  ad- 
vancement consists  finally  in  the  fact  that  for  not  much  more 
than  a  hundred  years— but  then,  however,  in  rapidly  in- 
creasing mt^suvt— inorganic  energies  have  been  placed  in 
the  service  of  mankind.    This  has  been  achieved  down  to  the 
present  day  chiefly  by  means  of  fossil  coal.     But  in  most 
recent  times  it  has  become  possible  through  the  development 
of  electrical  engineering  to  harness  the  natural  powers  of 
water  and  to  place  them  in  the  service  of  human  labor,  so 
that  they  are  beginning  to  supplant  the  chemical  energy  of 
coal  in  an  increasing  measure.     For  fossil  coal  is  not  a  pos- 
session that  is  being  produced  continuously  and  formed  anew 
each  year  on  the  earth  in  proportion  as  it  is  consumed  by 
mankind,  but  it  is  like  an  unexpected  and  unforeseen  in- 
heritance which  has  fallen  into  the  hands  of  mankind,  and 
which  will  also  be  exhausted  at  a  date  not  remote.    All  the 
improvements  of  technical  science  which  are  directed  toward 
a  saving  in  the  consumption  of  coal,  or  which  render  possible 
the  exploitation  of  coal  regions  which  were  inaccessible  to 
technical  science  in  the  past,  can,  after  all,  only  postpone  but 
not  prevent  the  complete  consumption  of  the  coal  supply. 
And  if  this  accidental  inheritance  is  exhausted,  mankind  will 
be  forced  to  put  to  use  that  portion  of  the  regular  supply  of 
energy— namely,  the  ever  present  solar  radiation— which  it 
needs  for  the  furtherance  of  its  civilization.    Natural  water- 
power  represents  an  energy  of  this  type  for  raising  water  by 
the  influence  of  the  sun's  rays,  and  the  condensation  of  vapor 
on  the  highest  points  of  the  earth  represents  a  continuous 
process  which  will  not  change  essentially  so  long  as  the 
conditions  of  life  on  the  earth  remain  adapted  to  the  human 
race. 

1:860;] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

The  fact  must,  of  course,  be  taken  into  consideration,  that 
through  this  very  process  of  running  ice  and  water  down 
from  the  highest  peaks  of  the  earth  there  results  a  gradual 
wearing  away  of  these  summits  and  a  diminution  of  their 
height,  so  that  upon  closer  analysis  this  form  of  energy  is 
also  one  which  is  slowly  diminishing.    We  shall,  therefore, 
have  to  consider  as  an  ideal  solution  of  the  problem  some 
form  or  other  of  mechanical  contrivance  by  means  of  which 
the  rays  of  the  sun  may  be  caught  up  directly  and  trans- 
formed into  other  kinds  of  energy.     Technical  science,  for 
example,  which  a  few  years  ago,  when  the  question  came 
into  prominence  of  there  being  a  possible  lack  of  latent 
nitrogen  for  producing  food  for  mankind,  at  once  put  an 
end  to  this  deficiency  by  developing  theoretical  and  sweeping 
methods  for  binding  the  nitrogen  of  the  air  until  it  was  ren- 
dered serviceable,  also  envisages  such  a  task  with  the  quiet 
assurance  that  it  will  not  merely  be  solved  when,  owing  to 
the  consumption  of  the  last  piece  of  coal,  mankind  finds  itself 
face  to  face  with  the  bitter  necessity  of  a  solution,  but  that 
the  solution  will  have  been  reached  long  before  the  last 
treasures  of  coal  have  been  subjected  to  exploitation. 

As  may  be  seen  at  once,  the  problems  here  in  question  in 
connection  with  procuring  primary  energy  for  human  pur- 
poses are  grouped  around  the  energetical  sciences.  Physics, 
especially  the  theory  of  heat  and  of  mechanics  on  the  one 
hand,  and  chemistry  in  the  form  of  the  theory  of  chemical 
energy  on  the  other  hand,  are  the  basic  sciences  the  theoreti- 
cal or  general  mastery  of  which  is  a  prerequisite  for  success- 
ful technical  development.  Other  technical  sciences  have 
other  theoretical  sciences  as  a  nucleus.  For  medicine,  for 
example,  it  is  physiology,  especially  that  of  man.  In  more 
recent  times  psychology  has  also  been  coming  increasingly 
mto  prominence,  and  advances  in  it  are  rendering  possible  a 

C861:] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

much  more  sure  and  successful  treatment  of  mental  disor- 
ders, anomalies,  and  defects.  The  future  activities  of  both 
sciences  will  place  within  our  reach  in  time  to  come  the  at- 
tainment of  a  healthier,  stronger,  and  more  capable  progeny. 
Thus  we  can  find  for  each  technical  science  the  sphere  in 
which  its  theoretical  foundations  are  laid  and  are  being 
developed  without  reference  to  immediate  application. 

The  science  of  civilization  is  especially  fertile  in  that  kind 
of  applied  disciplines  (indeed,  up  to  the  present  it  has  largely 
consisted  of  them)  in  which  the  theory  of  law,  the  theory  of 
the  state,  education,  and  finally  the  whole  organization  of 
science,  belong  as  technical  branches.  Since  all  the  other 
sciences  converge  in  the  science  of  civilization,  we  see  how 
extremely  diversified  this  discipline  must  be  in  a  theoretical 
as  well  as  in  an  applied  sense,  and  we  see,  for  example,  that 
certain  disciplines,  even,  which  according  to  previous  belief 
stood  outside  of  science,  like  ethics,  must  form  a  necessary 
and  regular  constituent  part  of  sociology.  For,  from  this 
point  of  view,  ethics  also  is  shown  to  be  an  applied  science. 
It  is  the  theory  of  the  way  in  which  and  the  content  to  which 
the  individual  must  limit  and  direct  the  activities  of  his  will 
in  order  to  mold  his  own  life  in  keeping  with  his  own  voli- 
tion as  far  as  possible,  but  yet  with  the  greatest  consideration 
for  the  volition  of  his  fellow-men. 

So  in  these  considerations  a  fundamental  fact  is  expressed, 
namely,  that  there  does  not  exist  a  single  class  in  the  mighty 
diversity  of  our  experiences  and  activities  that  could  not  be 
subjected  to  scientific  examination,— in  which,  in  other  words, 
one  could  not  w^ork  out  the  recurrent  regularities  and  use 
them  for  the  prediction  and,  where  one  may  exercise  any  in- 
fluence, for  the  pre-formation  of  the  future.  So  on  this  side, 
too,  science  shows  its  specifically  human  and  social  character 
in  a  way  that  would  be  impossible  for  either  applied  or  theo- 

[;8623 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

retical  science  of  any  importance  so  long  as  the  human  indi- 
vidual has  to  depend  upon  the  narrow  compass  of  his  own 
powers  and  upon  the  short  duration  of  his  personal  life. 
Only  by  means  of  the  process  of  socialization,  by  means  of 
the  possibility  of  communicating  one's  own  experiences  and 
the  generalizations  derived  therefrom  to  posterity,  and  in- 
deed, by  means  of  writing,  to  communicate  them  for  any 
desired  length  of  time  to  posterity,  independently  of  any 
personal  factor,  has  the  enormous  development  of  science 
become  possible,  of  which  we  are  the  surprised  witnesses  as 
we  contemplate  the  history  of  recent  and  more  recent  times. 
These  observations,  finally,  define  our  position  as  regards 
history.    Owing  to  the  circumstance  that  the  civilization  of 
central  Europe  has  been  erected  upon  the  half-lost  traditions 
of  ancient  Greco-Roman  civilization,  the  means  for  attain- 
ing a  knowledge  of  that  old  civilization,  which  appears  so 
inaccessibly  lofty  to  those  striving  after  it,  have  enjoyed 
quite  special  prominence.    And  since  from  the  nature  of  the 
case  it  was  only  a  question  of  phenomena  of  the  past,  the 
means  for  Investigating  the  conditions  of  the  past  and  for 
bringing  them  to  the  knowledge  of  the  present  age  came 
Into  correspondingly  high  repute  and  have  undergone  very 
extensive   development.     This   explains   the  great   respect 
which   all   historical    disciplines   have   enjoyed.      To   begin 
with,  historical  disciplines  which  had  to  do  with  scientific, 
artistic,  and  religious  traditions  were,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
appreciated  to  an  extraordinary  degree.     Then  this  valua- 
tlon  was  extended  Involuntarily  and  automatically  to  the 
Investigation  of  all  possible  forms  of  culture  of  a  higher  and 
of  a  lower  degree  which  were  being  rendered  accessible  by 
means  of  the  same  Instruments  of  historical  investigation. 
As  almost  always  happens  In  human  affairs,  the  means  finally 
became  confused  with  the  end,  and  became  in  themselves  the 


h 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

object  of  endeavor,  in  such  a  way  that  the  present  Intellectual 
tendency  of  a  great  number  of  scientific  persons  has  led  them 
to  the  point  of  looking  upon  a  merely  exact  knowledge  of 
the  past  alone  as  an  important  task  of  science  and  worthy  of 
any  sacrifice.  In  reply  to  this  It  must  be  said  that  historical 
investigation  in  Itself  cannot  be  considered  by  any  means  as 
a  science  in  Its  own  right.  History  must  rather  be  looked 
upon  as  a  scientific  technique,  as  an  auxiliary  means  for  the 
development  of  science,  which,  in  an  especial  way,  finds  ap- 
plication to  every  individual  field  of  all  science.  What  is 
now  called  history  was  until  recently  almost  exclusively  his- 
tory of  rulers,  states,  and  wars,  and  had  reference,  there- 
fore, to  an  exceedingly  Insignificant  part  of  actual  events. 
Slowly  and  with  considerable  resistance  on  the  part  of  those 
concerned,  the  idea  has  been  making  headway  that  the  his- 
tory of  technical  science  and  of  civilization  Is  a  far  more 
important  discipline  than  the  history  of  wars  and  countries. 
But  as  a  natural  result,  again,  of  accidental  historical  devel- 
opment, the  history  of  civilization  is  understood  to  be  rather 
a  history  of  art,  of  belles-lettres,  and  the  history  of  the  dis- 
ciplines connected  with  them  as  a  history  of  techniques; 
whereas  every  unprejudiced  survey  of  the  development  of 
peoples  and  states  teaches  us  that  this  development  Is  pre- 
eminently determined  by  the  technical  agencies  and  capa- 
bilities at  the  disposal  of  peoples  and  states,  while  the 
artistic-literary  side  has  played  relatively  only  a  secondary 
role  therein. 

Hence  a  logical  history  of  civilization  would  be  above 
everything  else  a  history  of  technical  science,  and  the  history 
of  the  other  Intellectual  possessions,  of  religious  ideas,  of 
art,  and  of  science  would  have  to  be  incorporated  only  as 
special  headings  in  this  general  history  of  human  progress 
written  from  a  technical  point  of  view. 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Accordingly  we  see  that  an  investigation  of  history  would 
presuppose  a  still  more  varied  preparation  than  that  de- 
manded above  for  the  philosopher  of  the  future;  that  is  to 
say,  in  addition  to  a  wide  and  fundamental  knowledge  of 
all  the  theoretical  or  general  sciences,  it  would  presuppose 
a  much  more  detailed  knowledge  of  all  the  applied  disci- 
plines, from  astronomy  to  chemical  technology  and  to  the 
theory  of  natural  selection.    It  is  evident  that  the  only  atti- 
tude mankind  in  Its  present  stage  of  culture  can  take  toward 
these  questions  is  that  the  technical  science  of  historical  in^ 
vestigation  is  connected  as  a  scientific  method  with  the  pur- 
suit of  every  single  discipline.     And  heretofore,  moreover, 
things  have  so  shaped  themselves  in  many  places  involun- 
tarily.    For  example,  we  have  historians  of  mathematics, 
namely,  mathematicians  who  by  means  of  historical  Investi- 
gation and  with  philological  knowledge  and  the  methods  of 
literary  criticism  have  thrown  light  upon  the  history  of  this 
particular  discipline.     In  the  same  way  the  history  of  chem- 
istry  down  to  the  present  time  has  been  written  exclusively 
by  chemists  and  not  by  specialists  in  history,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  the  professional  historians  have  not  the  neces- 
sary knowledge. 

What  has  been  brought  about  automatically  in  this  matter 
under  pressure  of  actual  conditions  should  now  be  cultivated 
farther  in  a  conscious  and  scientific  manner.  In  each  indi- 
vidual discipline,  in  every  pure  science  as  well  as  in  every 
applied  science,  the  historical  part  should  be  submitted  to 
careful  scientific  study.  But  it  must  be  particularly  noted 
that  this  should  be  done  only  from  the  universal  point  of 
view  of  scientific  work  in  general,  namely,  for  the  purpose 
of  utilizing  logically  and  methodically  the  knowledge  of  the 
past  for  discovering  general  laws  and  at  the  same  time  for 
predicting  the  future.     The  definition  given  by  the  cele- 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

brated  German  historian,  Leopold  Ranke,  which  exercised 
upon  a  whole  generation  of  historians  an  exceedingly  nar- 
rowing and  enervating  influence— namely,  that  the  only  im- 
portant thing  for  the  historian  to  know  is  how  things  have 
come  to  pass— must  be  rejected  for  fundamental  reasons. 
We  have  not  the  slightest  interest,  in  and  for  itself,  in  know- 
ing what  has  occurred  in  the  past,  for  we  have  not  the  least 
influence  on  this  past,  and  even  the  most  accurate  knowledge 
of  it  does  not  enable  us  to  change  it  in  any  way  desired  by 
us.    Only  in  so  far  as  the  past  has  future  value— that  is,  only 
in  so  far  as  one  is  able  from  a  knowledge  of  the  past  to 
deduce  universal  laws  for  shaping  in  general  the  field  in 
question,  and  can  apply  them  for  predicting  and,  wherever 
possible,  shaping  the  future  in  the  general  interest  of  man- 
kind—have historical  studies  meaning  or  a  right  to  exist- 
ence.   If  one  surveys  the  present  pursuit  of  many  disciplines 
from  this  point  of  view,  one  will  become  convinced  that  even 
in  the  twentieth  century  we  still  suffer  in  various  ways  from 
unproductive  scholasticism,  from  pseudo-science,  which  has 
arisen  everywhere  from  the  fact  that  the  means  have  been 
confounded  with  the  end,  and  the  correct  bearings  have  been 
lost  as  to  what  is  and  what  is  not  worth  knowing.    The  past 
is  infinitely  too  rich  in  events  ever  to  be  exhaustively  repro- 
duced even  by  the  most  careful  and  most  complete  study. 
For,  at  the  very  time  we  are  devoting  all  our  intellectual 
powers  to  such  study,  there  actually  happens  in  a  moment  so 
enormously  much  that  to  try  to  reconstruct  in  all  its  details 
any  part  of  the  past  seems  like  drawing  water  into  the  vessel 
of  the  Danaides,— the  mighty  sea  of  new  occurrences  at  once 
covers  up  all  islands  of  this  kind,  islands  that  have  been  won 
with  difficulty.     So  the  essential  impossibility  of  such  a  task 
in  itself  demonstrates  its  essential  impracticability.    On  the 
other  hand,  the  question  of  what  relationships,  what  uni- 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 
formities,  what  general  formations  of  concepts  can  be  de- 
duced from  the  knowledge  of  any  past  events  whatsoever 
affords  us  a  safe  guide  that  teaches  us  to  judge  what  fields  in 
the  past  and  what  problems  of  historical  investigation  are 
really  worthy  of  study,  because  there  finally  results,  not  the 
science  of  the  past,  but  the  only  science  that  deserves  the 
name— the  science  of  the  future. 


C867: 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


Second  Lecture 
PRINCIPLES  OF  THE  THEORY  OF  EDUCATION 

LET  us  attempt  to  picture  to  ourselves  how  pedagogy, 
J  scientifically  systematized,  will  look  In  the  future.  To 
think  of  thus  anticipating  the  future  Is  not  as  presumptuous 
as  might  at  first  appear.  For,  by  means  of  a  methodology 
that  has  recently  been  developed,  common  to  all  the  sciences, 
we  may  also  examine  the  classification  and  content  even  of 
those  growing  sciences  which,  on  account  of  extraneous  in- 
fluences, we  have  not  yet  been  able  to  develop  to  the  extent 
that  the  general  scientific  and  cultural  conditions  of  the  age 
would  warrant.  We  shall  first  have  to  occupy  ourselves  with 
calling  to  mind  In  a  short  review  the  entire  system  of  the 
sciences.  With  the  help  of  this  system  we  can  then  answer 
the  question  where  pedagogy  is  to  be  classified.  Then,  by 
reason  of  the  place  which  will  be  assigned  to  pedagogy  in  the 
system  of  the  sciences,  the  systematic  arrangement  of  this 
discipline  may  be  readily  deduced  according  to  established 
principles. 

I  would  call  attention  to  the  fact  that  the  totality  of  the 
pure  sciences  may  be  divided  into  three  groups— the  sci- 
ences of  order,  the  energetical  sciences,  and  the  biological 
sciences.  The  sciences  of  order  begin  with  logic,  or  the 
theory  of  classes;  they  Include,  moreover,  mathematics  and 
geometry  as  well  as  the  science  of  time,  which  has  not  yet 
received  a  distinctive  name.  The  energetical  sciences  In- 
clude mechanics,  physics,  and  chemistry,  and,  as  Is  well 
known,  have  as  their  chief  characteristic  the  idea  of  energy, 
which  as  yet  plays  no  role  among  the  sciences  of  order, 

[8683 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

having  made  its  appearance  as  a  new  subject  of  study  in 
this  second  department  of  science.    The  biological  sciences, 
finally,  are  to  be  divided  into  physiology,  psychology,  and 
"culturology"    {Kulttirologle),  the  first  having  to  do  with 
the  most  general  phenomena  of  life,  the  second  with  those 
special  phenomena  called  processes  of  the  spirit  or  mind 
and    the    third    finally    with    the    biological-psychological 
phenomena  which  occur  exclusively  or  wholly  in  the  highest 
species  of  living  beings,   man.     These  specifically  human 
peculiarities  which  differentiate  the  race  of  the  homo  sapiens 
from  all  other  species  of  animals  is  comprehended  in  the 
name  culture;  therefore  the  science  of  specifically  human 
activities  may  be  most  suitably  called  culturology.     It  coin- 
cides practically  with  what  has  been  called  sociology.    This 
name,  however,  is  not  entirely  appropriate.     The  fact  of 
association,  to  be  sure,  is  extremely  important  for  the  devel- 
opment of  human  culture;  but,  on  the  one  hand,  it  is  not  the 
only  determining  factor  in  this  field,  and,  on  the  other  hand 
there  are  so  many  kinds  of  associations  among  animals  and 
plants,  and  even  among  minerals,  that  one  cannot  employ 
the  idea  of  social  organization  as  a  specific  characteristic  of 
this  highest  of  the  sciences. 

Now,  there  exists  between  the  sciences  just  mentioned  the 
relationship  that  the  first  mentioned  more  general  sciences 
always  have  an  influence  and  sphere  of  application  in  all  the 
scences  that  we  have  mentioned :  physics  finds  its  applica- 
tion in  chemistry  as  well  as  in  all  the  biological  sciences,  but 
no  application  in  mathematics,  logic,  geometry,  etc.     The 
higher,  therefore,  a  science  stands  in  this  succession,  or  the 
later  it  has  been  named,  so  much  the  more  do  earlier,  fun- 
damental sciences  come  into  consideration  In  connection  with 
.t  and  contribute  to  its  content  for  classification  and  exami- 
nation.     While,   for  example,   chemistry  employs   as   aux- 

1:8693 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 
iliaries  or  presupposed  sciences  only  logic,  mathematics 
(including  geometry),  and  physics,  there  come  mto  quesUon 
in  every  individual  science  belonging  to  culturology,  one 
after  another,  .//  the  sciences,  and  from  this  there  result 
naturally  a  division  and  an  exhaustive  view  of  all  the  prob- 
lems  which  are  to  be  solved  In  that  particular  science. 

Before  we  pose  the  chief  question  and  its  answer,  to  which 
of  these  domains  pedagogy  belongs,  we  must  state  by  way  of 
premise  that,  by  the  side  of  the  pure  sciences  just  mentioned 
there  are  a  great  many  special  disciplines  that  are  called 
applied  sciences  or  techniques.    They  share  with  the  chief 
sciences  the  application  of  the  laws  of  nature,  but  differ  from 
them  in  that  their  goal  is  not  systematized  learnmg  and 
order,  but  some  practical  problem  the  solution  of  which  has 
forced  Itself  upon  man  as  a  necessity.     So  medicine,   for 
example,  is  that  kind  of  an  applied  science  or  techmque  that 
makes  abundant  use  of  all  the  sciences  up  to  and  including 
physiology,  and  in  some  of  its  disciplines  it  employs  also 
psychology  and  the  science  of  civilization    {Kullur^ssen- 
schaft).     Each  applied  science  has,  like  medicine,  its  fixed 
center  of  gravity  in  one  of  the  pure  sciences.     It  will  there- 
fore, as  a  matter  of  course,  use  In  its  functions  all  the  more 
general  or  subsidiary  sciences  also,  while  little-under  cer- 
tain circumstances  nothing-from  the  higher  sciences  comes 
into  consideration  In  connection  with  it. 

We  have  now  made  the  necessary  preparation  to  enable 
us  to  designate  exactly  the  position  of  pedagogy  in  the  whole 
system  of  the  sciences.  In  the  first  place,  there  is  no  doubt 
that  pedagogy  belongs  to  culturology.  As  we  have  already 
seen  pedagogy  is  concerned  with  handing  down  the  culture 
of  tiie  present  living  generations  to  the  ones  coming  next 
We  recognize,  furthermore,  that  pedagogy  is  an  applied 
science,  since  it  is  not  a  question  here  of  purely  perceiving. 

1:8703 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

systematizing,  and  ordering  any  natural  facts,  but  it  has 
rather  as  its  purpose  the  influence  to  be  exerted  on  the  grow- 
ing  youth  in  the  manner  often  described.     Pedagogy  is, 
therefore,  a  chapter  of  applied  culturology  or  sociology,  the 
pure  sciences  appearing  as  sciences  subsidiary  to  it,  since 
culturology  as  the  supreme  or  ultimate  science  is  in  its  way 
dependent  upon  all  the  earlier  or  more  general  sciences.  We 
shall,  therefore,  get  a  view  of  the  whole  content  of  scientific 
pedagogy  if,  with  respect  to  pedagogical  problems,  we  in- 
quire into  the  influence  and  importance  of  each  particular 
science. 

Before  investigating  the  relationship  of  pedagogy  to  the 
several  single  sciences  that  become  step  by  step  more  com- 
plicated, we  have  still  one  general  point  to  settle,  the  more 
important  features  of  which  I  must  at  least  touch  upon  in 
order  in  some  measure  to  answer  at  the  very  outset  ques- 
tions that  may  possibly  arise.     We  shall  have  to  call  to 
mind  that  the  problem  to  which  we  are  now  turning  has  two 
different  sides.     I  mean  that  the  question  involves  not  only 
the  influence  which  the  various  sciences  exercise  upon  the 
subject-matter  of  instruction,  but  also  the  influence  that  they 
exercise    upon    the    process    of   instruction.      Accordingly 
both  matter  and  form  of  instruction  are  influenced  simul- 
taneously by  the  various  sciences,  and  it  seems  logically  and 
methodically  imperative  to  keep  these  two  sides  always  dis- 
tmct.^    I  should  anticipate  right  here,  and  say  that  such  a 
division  does  not  influence  the  results  of  our  examination  to 
any  great  degree.  I  must  admit  that  I  myself  was  astonished 
to  see  how  much  these  two  questions  merge  and  hang  to- 
gether, thanks  to  the  general  method  to  which  they  are  here 
subjected.    From  this  fact  we  may  draw  the  general  conclu- 
sion that  on  arriving  at  a  really  rational  solution  of  the 
problem,  the  two  phases  of  pedagogical  science  will  show 

1:8713 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

themselves  to  be  closely  related;  that,  in  other  words,  the 
content  of  instruction  determines  its  method  adequately  and 

absolutely. 

We  recognize  this  most  clearly,  perhaps,  m  the  very  hrst 
heading  to  be  treated,  in  the  relation  between  logic-or 
rather  the  theory  of  multiplicity-and  pedagogy.    Owing  to 
a  strong  movement  which  is  making  itself  very  evident  m 
present-day  science,  the  former  unqualified  veneration  for 
the  Aristotelian  logic  has  been  giving  place  to  the  more 
recent  notion  that  what  we  with  justice  call  logic  is  nothing 
more  than  the  theory  of  the  most  general  and  most  com- 
monly recurring  relations  among  different  things  and  their 
concepts.     Accordingly,  there  come  into  question,  not  only 
the  manner  and  means  by  which  from  two  propositions  a 
third  may   be   construed    (the    exclusive   content   of   logic 
hitherto),  but  also  a  more  universal  problem.    What  mod- 
ern logic  treats  of  is  how  things  may  be  classified,  how  the 
resulting  groups  may  be  mutually  co-ordinated,  and  what 
results  and  laws  ensue  therefrom.    From  this  point  of  view 
we  see  at  once  that  the  whole  province  of  human  speech  be- 
longs in  this  large  general  chapter.    Speech  is  nothing  but  a 
system  of  signs  which  we  associate  with  the  system  of  con- 
cepts,  and  which  we  have  formed  for  ourselves  for  the 
purpose  of  transmitting  our  ideas  to  others  by  means  of  lan- 
guage.   Language  serves,  therefore,  for  the  communication 
of  ideas  by  means  of  the  following  process:  Some  definite 
sign  is  associated  with  a  given  idea,  and  this  sign  must  always 
be  the  same  for  that  particular  idea.     If,  now,  another  per- 
son is  led  to  connect  the  same  ideas  with  these  signs,  he^^'un- 
derstands"  the  language  in  question;  that  is,  on  recognizing 
the  signs,  he  forms  in  his  mind  the  same  idea  that  the  first 
person  had  in  mind  when  he  produced  the  sign.    We  are  thus 
concerned  here  with  an  unusually  general  and  therefore  im- 

[872] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

portant  case  of  the  association  of  two  groups,  the  concept 
group  and  the  lingual  sign  group. 

Soon,  however,  this  phenomenon  assumes  another  aspect 
by  reason  of  the  fact  that  we  are  not  able  to  satisfy  ourselves 
in  all  cases  with  spoken,  phonetic  symbols,  lasting  but  a  mo- 
ment; we  find  ourselves,  on  the  other  hand,  forced  for  many 
purposes  to  associate  enduring  symbols  with  our  ideas,  such 
as  are  employed  in  our  written  language,  script. 

This  means,  pedagogically  speaking,  that  what  the  child 
must  first  acquire  is  the  ability  to  form  and  employ  a  number 
of  ideas  that  are  connected  and  sufficiently  clearly  grasped, 
as  well  as  the  ability  to  associate  with  these  ideas  the  con- 
ventional speech  symbols  of  its  mother  tongue.  Only  after 
the  co-ordination  of  words  has  been  completely  established 
and  fluently  learned  can  the  association  of  written  symbols 
follow.  Along  with  this  a  new  fact  makes  itself  felt, 
namely,  that  when  a  group  A  is  associated  with  a  group  B, 
and  again  a  group  C  with  group  B,  then  groups  A  and  C 
prove  to  be  co-ordinated.  Now,  if  one  represents  the  sym- 
bols of  speech  by  means  of  letters,  without  concerning  one's 
self  about  the  sense  of  these  sounds,— that  is  to  say,  without 
reference  to  their  associated  ideas,— one  obtains  again  a 
system  of  symbols,  the  written  language,  which  is  co-ordi- 
nated quite  as  closely  with  the  original  ideas  as  the  sound 
language  was. 

In  methodical  presentation  all  these  things  look  rather 
abstract  and  uninteresting,  but  they  assume  at  once  a  con- 
crete form  as  soon  as  one  envisages  the  real  pedagogical 
problem  in  connection  with  the  child-mind  in  process  of  de- 
velopment, viz.,  on  the  one  hand,  the  formation  of  clear 
and  precise— that  is  to  say,  sharply  differentiated— ideas, 
and,  on  the  other  hand,  the  association  of  the  symbols  or  of 
the  words  with  these  well-understood  concepts.     Obviously, 

n8733 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

this  analysis  gives  as  a  result  (and  in  a  way  which  is  to  most 
persons  as  unexpected  as  it  is  illuminating)  the  principle  of 
the  industrial  school  {Arbeitsschule) ,     The  phrase  "indus- 
trial school"  is  one  of  those  phrases  the  co-ordination  of  the 
meaning  of  which  is  not  quite  clear,  probably  because  there  is 
such  a  lack  of  definiteness  to  overcome  in  the  idea  itself.    In 
the  light  of  the  observations  just  made,  one  sees  that  the  in- 
dustrial school  comes  to  mean  in  the  lower  grades  that  the  cul- 
tivation of  the  formation  of  ideas  within  the  range  accessible 
to  a  child  proves  to  be  the  first  and  most  important  mission 
of  the  school.     Therefore,  during  the  first  year,  when  the 
teacher  with  his  class  looks  about  him  chiefly  in  the  school- 
room, afterward  in  the  house,  street,  or  field,  and  describes 
the  various  objects  and  situations  and  gives  names  to  them, 
he  is  carrying  out  the  most  elementary  pedagogical  applica- 
tion of  the  first  and  most  general  of  all  the  sciences — the 
science  of  co-ordination,  or  logic.    At  the  same  time  we  rec- 
ognize the  fact  that  the  method  hitherto  employed— i.^.,  that 
of  beginning  to  teach  reading  and  writing  as  soon  as  possible 
—  is  shown,  in  the  light  of  this  analysis  of  earliest  school  ac- 
tivities, to  be  unfit  for  the  purpose.     The  most  important 
thing,  because  fundamental,  is  first  the  formation,  co-ordina- 
tion, and  clarification  of  ideas;  and  since  this  work  neces- 
sarily forms  a  basis  for  all  else,  a  corresponding  amount  of 
pains  and  care  must  be  bestowed  upon  it.    Above  all,  it  must 
not  be  demanded  of  children  that  they  represent  and  repro- 
duce ideas  before  they  have  grasped  clearly  the  content  of 
the  idea  itself.     Only  after  the  child,  within  the  range  of  its 
experience,  can  express  itself  fluently  about  the  ideas  that 
present  themselves  and  about  their  mutual  relations,— when, 
for  example,  it  can  relate  its  little  experiences  coherently,— 
then  only  does  the  question  present  itself  how  we  are  to  co- 
ordinate with  these  abstract  representations  expressed  by 

1:8743 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

sounds  those  expressed  in  lasting  symbols.  In  other  words, 
one  will  not  begin  with  instruction  in  writing  and  reading  till 
about  the  end  of  the  first  year,  and  this  year  will  be  devoted 
almost  exclusively  to  the  cultivation  of  the  processes  of  con- 
ception. 

Now  as  to  the  association  of  the  written  and  printed  sym- 
bols with  the  ideas  and  their  sound-symbols,  we  know  that 
German  schools  sufl^er  most  seriously  by  reason  of  the  va- 
riety of  alphabets,  the  number  of  which  (large  and  small, 
written  and  printed,  Roman  and  Gothic)  amounts  to  no  less 
than  eight.    I  do  not  wish  to  permit  this  opportunity  to  pass 
without  again  urgently  calling  attention  to  the  fact  that,  in 
the  first  place,  the  so-called  German,  or  Gothic,  script  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  idea  of  "being  German,"  and,  in  the 
second  place,  it  proves  to  be  a  serious  hindrance  to  the  men- 
tal development  of  our  children  and  of  our  people.     Not 
even  a  half-educated  person  may  avoid  learning  the  Roman 
script,  printed  as  well  as  written,  because,  for  example,  all 
the  notices  on  the  railroads,  the  street  corners,  etc.,  and  the 
characters  on  all  typewriters,  are  in  this  script,  for  the  very 
simple  reason  that  it  is  much  easier  to  read  than  the  Gothic 
script.     The  knowledge  of  Gothic  script  is  therefore  neces- 
sary only  for  written  and  printed  statements  in  which  it  is 
still  injudiciously  retained,  and  in  which  its  discontinuance 
is  only  a  question  of  time.   While  it  is  true,  for  example,  that 
in  our  daily  press  most  of  the  general  news  items  are  still  to 
be  found  printed  in  Gothic  characters,  nevertheless  news  of 
scientific  and  commercial  character,  which  it  is  presumed  will 
be  read  by  readers  of  other  nationalities,  is  already  being 
printed  quite  generally  in  Roman  characters.     It  would  not 
occasion  the  slightest  difficulty,  but  rather  bring  about  far- 
reaching  relief  in  the  ratio  of  2 :  i  in  the  instruction  of  chil- 
dren, if  one  should  forego  completely  all  knowledge  of  the 

1:8753 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Gothic  script  in  the  early  years  of  school,  and  leave  acquir- 
ing a  reading  knowledge  of  it  (for  writing  it  is  completely 
superfluous)  till  a  riper  age. 

This  explanation  of  the  material  content  of  primary  edu- 
cation gives  us  at  the  same  time  an  insight  into  the  corre- 
sponding pedagogical  procedure.     At  this  stage  the  teacher 
will,  above  all,  see  to  it  that  he  promotes  to  the  best  of  his 
ability  the  formation  of  concepts,  that  he  compels  the  chil- 
dren to  represent  accurately  to  themselves  the  characteristic 
and  constituent  parts  of  the  various  ideas  they  possess,  and 
he   will   also   take   care   that   the   very   clearest   and   most 
definitely  co-ordinated  words  are  employed  for  the  clear  and 
definite  ideas  thus  obtained.    Just  here  many  difficulties  may 
be  encountered,  for  all  the  so-called  natural  languages  (i.e., 
those  which  have  developed  unsystematically)   leave  much 
to  be  desired  as  regards  order  and  regularity,  and  therefore 
often  violate  the  prime  requisites  of  logical  association- 
above  all,  the  necessity  of  avoiding  ambiguity.  The  capacity 
of  the  teacher  will  be  shown  by  his  skill  in  overcoming  these 
internal  difficulties  of  our  present  language,  and  in  point- 
ing out  to  the  children  the   existing  obstacles   and  ambi- 
guities in  order  that  these  may  be  avoided.    As  an  example 
of  the  extent  to  which  the  material  analysis  of  the  content 
of  instruction  also  elucidates  the  method  of  imparting  it,  I 
need  only  mention,  in  passing,  that  in  the  logical  analysis  of 
first  conceptions  it  is  necessary,  from  the  point  of  view  of 
method,  to  separate  learning  how  to  write  from  learning 
how  to  read,  and  to  place  the  former,  as  the  more  difficult 
art,  at  a  later  period,  when  the  relation  between  the  idea  and 
its  written  symbol  has  become  completely  comprehensible. 

After  this  first  division  of  the  sciences  there  follows  quite 
naturally  the  second— the  theory  of  quantities,  or  mathe- 
matics.   Reading,  writing,  and  arithmetic  are  the  traditional 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

subjects  of  elementary  instruction,  and  in  the  very  same  way 
experience  has  brought  us  to  realize  that  arithmetic  should 
not  come  until  considerably  later,  when  the  more  general  ele- 
ments in  the  systematization  of  mental  processes  have  been 
treated  and  made  familiar  to  the  child.  One  cannot  build  up 
the  science  of  mathematics  logically,  nor  can  that  science, 
therefore,  be  rightly  understood  if  one  has  not  first  acquired 
a  clear  grasp  of  the  ideas  appearing  in  the  sphere  of  order, 
and  of  the  mutual  relations  of  those  ideas. 

It  is  also  a  matter  of  common  knowledge,  and  one  that  Is 
making  more  and  more  headway  in  our  day,  that  after  arith- 
metic should  come  the  simpler  elements  of  geometry.  Of 
course,  for  definite  logical  and  philosophical  reasons,  geom- 
etry should  not  be  taught  in  the  form  of  Euclid's  Exposi- 
tion, but  rather  as  an  empirical  science,  which  it  certainly 
has  always  been.  It  is  just  here  that  the  special  side  of 
the  modp-n  industrial  school  makes  itself  felt,  where 
the  child,  by  handling  objects  of  dimension,  by  producing 
them  from  plastic  material,  and  by  their  respective  transfor- 
mation during  the  process  of  alteration,  will  acquire  a  quan- 
tity of  notions  regarding  practical  geometry  at  an  age  when 
the  usual  instruction,  by  reason  of  statements  that  are 
abstract  and  (for  a  child's  mind)  too  general  and  empty, 
would  lead  nowhere.  Helmholtz  himself  states  that  the 
principal  theorems  of  geometry  were  perfectly  familiar  to 
him  the  first  time  they  were  taught  him  in  school,  and  that 
this  was  due  to  the  blocks  with  which  he  had  played  during 
his  early  years,  when  he  was  repeatedly  compelled  to  keep 
to  his  bed. 

With  these  hints,  let  us  leave  for  the  present  the  subject 
of  the  sciences  of  order,  as  regards  their  influence  upon  the 
theory  of  teaching.  In  connection  with  the  reflections  just 
made,  a  hundred  other  relationships,  which  naturally  follow 


\ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

from  what  has  been  said  here,  will  have  suggested  them- 
selves to  every  teacher,  but  they  cannot  here  be  analyzed 
singly.  For  as  soon  as  one  begins  to  undertake  a  systematic 
examination,  the  subject-matter  grows  irresistibly  into  a 
complete  system  of  pedagogy,  the  analysis  of  which  would 
require  not  the  few  pages  at  our  disposal,  but  volumes. 

We  shall  now  turn  to  the  second  department  of  our  clas- 
sification, the  physical  or  energetical  sciences.  In  case  we 
desire  for  symmetry's  sake  to  preserve  the  tripartite  di- 
vision, we  may  divide  them  into  mechanics,  physics,  and 
chemistry.  It  is  a  matter  of  common  knowledge  that  it  is 
customary  to  impart  these  sciences  to  the  child  only  in  the 
higher  grades  of  instruction,  but  their  relatively  early  posi- 
tion in  the  realm  of  all  the  sciences  suggests  the  possibility 
that  by  postponing  instruction  in  these  sciences  in  the  case  of 
the  developing  child  we  have  not  heretofore  waited  too  long. 
Here,  too,  we  must  distinguish  very  carefully  the  pedagog- 
ical presentation  of  the  subject-matter  connected  with  the 
daily  concept  formation  of  a  child,  by  which  at  first  only  the 
general  content  and  general  processes  of  the  science  are 
demonstrated  by  means  of  natural  examples  from  the  exact, 
logically  ordered,  and  systematic  presentation  of  the  whole 
science.  The  sciences  to  be  considered  in  this  connection  are 
already  so  highly  developed  theoretically  that  even  their 
general  propositions  may  be  made  perfectly  intelligible  to  a 
child.  I  need  only  remind  you  that  elementary  mechanics 
of  the  spade,  wheel,  lever,  and  hammer,  gives  a  sufliciently 
complete  introduction  to  the  idea  of  energy,  and  can  explain 
quite  interestingly,  even  to  the  slightly  developed  mind  of  a 
child,  the  law  of  the  conservation  of  energy  by  means  of  the 
general  principle  of  the  conservation  of  work  in  machines.  I 
recall,  in  my  own  development,  that  at  the  age  of  twelve  or 
fourteen  I  was  sufficiently  advanced  not  only  to  incorporate 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

these  things  in  my  memory,  but  also  to  find  that  inward  intel- 
lectual pleasure  in  their  arrangement  and  in  their  respective 
relations  the  production  of  which  is  the  most  effective 
auxiliary  of  every  good  teacher. 

These  hints  concerning  the  content  of  instruction,  in  so  far 
as  it  has  to  do  with  the  energetical  sciences  that  I  have  men- 
tioned, may  suffice.    On  the  other  hand,  the  application  of 
suitable  fundamental  concepts  in  the  method  of  instruction 
is  deserving  of  some   attention,   even  though  it  does   en- 
croach to  some  extent  upon  the  subject-matter  of  physiology. 
The  teacher  must  accustom  himself  to  treating  the  child 
as  an  energetical  machine,— which,  like  every  other  organ- 
ism, it  really  is,  — and  to  conforming  his  treatment  to  the 
principles  of  energetics,  whose  first  and  most  important  axiom 
is  that  perpetual  motion  is  an  impossibility.    In  other  words, 
it  is  not  possible  to  produce  work  out  of  nothing;  but  rather, 
the  only  way  to  realize  work  consists  in  transforming  other 
stores  of  free  energy  into  the  needed  form.    Unfortunately, 
the  pedagogy  that  has  been  practised  up  to  the  present  has 
paid  very  little  attention  to  this  basic  law  of  all  natural 
phenomena,  though  it  circumscribes  the  sphere  outside  of 
which  nothing  can  ever  occur.     Our  present  pedagogy  is 
predominantly  pedagogy  of  the  will.    By  working  upon  the 
will  of  the  child,  with  a  view  to  reward  or  punishment,  we 
have  attempted  to  attain  the  desired  results,  and  in  case  of 
failure  to  supplement  it  with  all  the  more  powerful  influ- 
ences upon  the  will  in  proportion  as  the  real  performances 
fall  short  of  those  desired.     I  do  not  mean  to  intimate  that 
we  should  fail  to  recognize  that  influencing  the  will  is  a  fac- 
tor, and  a  most  important  factor,  in  all  pedagogy.     This 
influencing,  however,  is  possible  only  within  the  scope  of  the 
laws  of  energy;  and  where  the  demands  involve  an  infringe- 
ment of  these  laws,  even  the  most  powerful  influence  on 

1:8793 


\ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

the  will  accomplishes  nothing.     If  a  child  that  has  not  had 
sufficient  sleep  and  is  underfed  is  expected  to  do  normal  work 
in  school,  and  if  the  teacher,  either  voluntarily  or  by  virtue 
of  the  regulations,  forces  the  child  to  do  that  normal  amount 
by  influencing  Its  will-power,  it  is  a  question  of  nothing  but 
the  attainment  of  perpetual  motion,  the  possibility  of  which, 
however,  is  excluded  by  the  most  Important  synthesis  that 
science  knows.  A  child  that  brings  with  it  no  store  of  energy 
into  school  possesses  also  no  forms  of  energy  which  it  can 
transform  into  the  work  demanded,  and  all  the  Influences 
brought  to  bear  upon  the  will,  from  affectionate  admonition 
to  severest  punishment,  cannot  alter  the  situation  in  any  way. 
The  beginning  of  a  more  practical  understanding  of  these 
conditions  is  beginning  to  make  itself  felt  In  many  directions, 
in  so  far  as  care  Is  taken,  thanks  to  charitable  foundations, 
to  provide  weak  and  underfed  children,  before  the  beginning 
of  school  Instruction,  with  the  necessary  stores  of  energy  by 
the  distribution  of  milk  and  bread.     But  these  distributions 
are  looked  upon  at  present  more  in  the  light  of  charity,  and 
it  Is  taken  for  granted  that  one  is  doing  something  unneces- 
sary, whereas  more  careful  consideration  teaches  that  the 
work  of  the  teacher  expended  upon  children  of  that  kind, 
who  are  provided  with  insufficient  stores  of  energy,  is  quite 
useless  and  in  Its  way  a  waste  of  energy.    Every  township, 
therefore,  that  does  not  see  to  it  that  working  children  have 
really  something  to  consume,  that  they  are  physiologically 
capable  of  work,  spends  the  money  used  in  school  Instruction 
in  exactly  the  same  way  as  a  manufacturer  would  do  if  he 
attempted  to  construct  his  product  with  poorly  made  ma- 
chines,  dull   files   and  knives,   and  similar   inadequate   ap- 
paratus. 

We  turn  now  to  the  biological  side  of  pedagogy.     The 
following  circumstance  is  to  be  noted,  which  is  of  consider- 

[880] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

able  Importance  in  the  problems  of  method  which  confront 
us.    To  a  growing  child  a  beetle  is  relatively  much  more  in- 
teresting than  a  stone;  the  attitude  of  other  people  toward  it 
is  much  more  a  subject  of  notice  than  possibly  the  phe- 
nomena of  the  clouds  or  the  actions  of  electrically  charged 
Sambucus  balls.     This  is  a  circumstance  which  is  coi  i^cted 
quite  naturally  with  the  formation  of  concepts.     The  child 
forms  its  first  and  most  familiar  concepts  in  immediate  con- 
junction with  its  daily  experiences;  that  Is  to  say,  other  peo- 
ple are,  above  all  else,  absolutely  and  indubitably  objects  of 
interest  to  it,  and  other  interests  follow  these  only  in  propor- 
tion as  they  are  conceived  as  being  less  and  less  like  man. 
For  this  reason  it  is  much  easier  in  school  to  awaken  an  in- 
terest in  animals  and  plants  than  in  minerals  and  physical 
experiments.     So  a  certain  antithesis  makes  itself  felt  be- 
tween this  natural  organization  of  the  human  mind  and  the 
logical  construction  of  the  sciences.     For  the  latter  begin 
with  the  most  abstract  Ideas,  those  lying  farthest  from  the 
developing  mind  of  the  child,  and  ascend  from  them  to  the 
ever  more  varied  and  therefore  more  comprehensible  ones 
lying  nearer  to  the  perception  of  the  child.     This  seeming 
contradiction  is  explained  by  the  fact  that  the  former  more 
general  branches  of  knowledge,  as  has  been  explained  al- 
ready, are  introduced  as  entirely  empirical  subjects.     By  no 
means  do  we  dare  entertain  the  Idea,  so  far  as  a  child  is  con- 
cerned, of  an  exhaustive,  systematic  presentation  of  them; 
but  we  should  rather  make  use  only  of  those  parts  thereof 
which,  in  the  daily  life  of  the  child,  prove  themselves  to  be 
necessary  and  therefore  familiar,  and  in  the  end  also  inter- 
esting.   And  so  at  this  early  age  one  will  not  wish  to  give  a 
systematic  presentation  of  physics  and  chemistry,  but  will,  of 
course,  rather  familiarize  the  child  with  the  fundamental 
phenomena  that  daily  life  brings  with  it,  without  special 

[881] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

reference  to  formulating  them.  At  the  point  where  the  two 
divergent  lines  almost  meet— viz.,  where  the  conceptual  fac- 
ulty of  the  child  has  already  advanced  to  a  knowledge  of 
animals  and  plants— the  contact  with  more  general  and 
more  abstract  concepts  will  be  brought  about  by  ascending 
the  scale  of  science  and  by  the  diminution  of  childish  inter- 
est. That  zoology  and  botany  can  be  taught  with  success 
at  an  age  when  systematic  physics  or  chemistry  could  not 
yet  be  taught  is  due  to  the  fact  that,  in  presenting  to  children 
at  that  age  the  science  of  animals  and  plants,  the  exposition 
is  limited  to  their  appearance,  and  to  those  circumstances  of 
their  being  which  resemble  similar  functions  in  man.  It  is 
merely  a  question  of  the  continuation  of  the  theory  of  con- 
cept formation  to  which  we  referred  in  our  discussion  of  the 
most  elementary  stages  of  systematic  instruction.  Instruc- 
tion in  the  physiology  of  animals  and  plants  cannot  be  ac- 
complished otherwise  than  upon  the  basis  of  a  sufficient 
knowledge  of  chemistry  and  physics,  and  should  be  post- 
poned to  a  very  much  later  period. 

So  much  for  the  content  of  instruction  as  regards  the  de- 
partments just  mentioned.  The  method  has  been  touched 
upon  already  to  some  extent,  my  observations  regarding  the 
energetical  side  of  the  question  having  suggested  the  premise 
that  a  child  is  a  living  being,  a  biological  organism.  At  all 
events,  we  may  add  here  a  few  additional  remarks  growing 
out  of  the  physiological  and  culturological  phases  of  the  sub- 
ject. As  far  as  the  application  of  physiological  laws  to  the 
method  of  instruction  is  concerned,  this  is  a  department  of 
knowledge  that  has  begun  to  be  opened  up  only  very  re- 
cently. It  is  less  than  a  decade  since  we  began  recognizing 
that  all  pedagogy  presupposes  the  knowledge  of  psychol- 
ogy in  its  application  to  teacher  and  to  child;  that  all 
scientific  pedagogy,  therefore,  must  begin  with  the  study  of 

[-882] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 
child  psychology  and  the  psychology  of  the  processes  of  in- 
struction. This,  of  course,  is  not  the  most  important  influ- 
ence that  psychological  knowledge  has  had  upon  pedagogy. 
On  the  contrary,  the  highly  endowed  empiricists  of  the  past, 
to  whom  we  are  indebted  for  the  best  in  all  that  has  been 
accomplished  and  systematized  heretofore,  recognized  these 
fundamental  relationships  long  ago  as  a  matter  of  course 
and  put  them  to  practical  use;  as,  for  example,  the  precepts 
that  the  simple  must  precede  the  complex,  that  the  mind 
must  not  be  fatigued  by  being  occupied  too  long  with  one 
subject,  etc. 

Among  the  empirical  results  thus  obtained  I  wish  to  lay 
particular  stress  upon  one  only,  because  to  my  mind  too  little 
emphasis  has  been  laid  upon  it,  although  it  is  absolutely 
fundamental  for  the  successful  solution  of  the  problem  of 
teaching.    In  the  course  of  an  investigation  undertaken  years 
ago  for  an  entirely  different  purpose,  I  attempted  to  account 
for  the  pnnciples  which,  in  conformity  with  natural  laws 
might  be  established  as  regards  the  most  general  problem  of 
every  human  life,  namely,  the  attainment  of  happiness;  and 
I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  most  important  requisites 
for  happmess  are,  first,  the  greatest  possible  amount  of  com- 
pletely transformable  energy,  and,  secondly,  the  greatest 
possible  amount  of  energy  transformed  voluntarily.'     The 
workings  of  human  energy  may  be  divided  into  two  parts- 
one  that  is  transformed  in  complete  conformity  to  the  actual 
will  of  the  person  in  question,  and  another  that  is  brought 
into  transformation  under  the  influence  of  compulsion  of 
some  kind.    A  life  filled  only  with  forced  activities  repug- 
nant to  the  will  is  felt  by  everyone  to  be  a  condition  of  the 
greatest  unhappiness.    On  the  other  hand,  the  various  prov- 

S.af/.-   "^'"   ''•'^'^"""g   d"   Tages"    (Leipzig,   Akad.   Verlagsges.,    ^,„), 

n883] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

erbs  on  the  subject  of  happiness  reveal  the  fact  that  activities 
which  are  in  conformity  to  volition  have  long  since  been  rec- 
ognized as  the  absolutely  necessary  premise  to  every  sensa- 
tion of  happiness.     But  at  the  same  time,  energetics  also 
teaches  that  the  result  of  every  transformation  of  energy 
depends,  first,  upon  the  total  amount  of  available  energy, 
and,  secondly,  upon  the  quality-ratio— i.^.,  upon  the  propor- 
tion of  raw  energy  that  can  be  transformed  into  the  form 
desired  for  the  particular  purpose.     Accordingly  there  ap- 
pears a  remarkable  parallel  between  the  quality-ratio  and  the 
sensation  of  happiness;  that  is,  the  highest  quality-ratio  is 
attained  when  the  transformation  ensues  with  the  least  re- 
sistance: for  every  resistance  that  must  be  overcome  con- 
sumes an  expenditure  of  energy  which  must  be  withdrawn 
from  the  principal  objective.     In  the  same  way,  happiness 
increases  with  the  diminution  of  resistance.     From  this  it 
follows  that  in  school  the  children  will  accomplish  a  maxi- 
mum of  work  when  that  which  they  do  is  accomplished  with 
the  least  resistance,  under  the  least  possible  coercion  on  the 
part  of  the  teacher,  and  hence  with  a  maximum  of  sensations 
of  happiness.     Therefore,  in  the  feeling  of  happiness  on  the 
part  of  the  pupils  we  have  a  means  of  measuring  the  expe- 
diency of  the  instruction  itself.     The  happier  a  pupil  feels 
during  the  recitation  hour,  the  greater  will  be  the  success 
that  the  teacher  may  expect  from  his  instruction  during  the 

period. 

These  analyses  in  the  domain  of  psychology  and  ener- 
getics coincide  with  experience  In  accordance  with  which 
those  teachers  who  understood  how  to  train  their  pupils  to 
joyous  and  enthusiastic  participation  in  their  tasks  actually 
had  also  the  very  best  success  in  their  instruction.  Not  only 
is  it  a  fact  that  children  are  accustomed  to  cling  to  such 
teachers  with  lasting  gratitude,  but  that  the  Immediate  and 

1:884:] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

concrete  results  of  teaching  under  such  circumstances  are 
incomparably  greater  than  those  obtained  by  severe  teachers 
through  employing  coercion.  If  children  are  forced  against 
their  will  to  work  on  assigned  tasks,  only  transitory  results 
at  best  ensue.  The  children  cram  their  minds  with  the  sub- 
ject-matter demanded  for  the  quizzes  and  examinations; 
they  forget  these  things  learned  unwillingly  very  quickly, 
however,  and  the  result  is  nothing  but  a  lasting  detestation 
of  the  teacher  and  a  vacuum  in  the  Ill-treated  brain. 

In  order  to  make  this  important  principle  clear  by  an  ex- 
ample, I  should  like  to  recount  a  purely  empirical  and  unin- 
tentional confirmation  of  it,  for  which  I  am  indebted  to  the 
well-known  pedagogical  reformer,  Berthold  Otto.    Berthold 
Otto  describes  what  he  calls  Gesammtunterricht  ("joint  in- 
struction"), a  system  discovered  and  developed  very  com- 
pletely by  him,  by  which  the  children  themselves,  with  their 
questions  and  observations,  assume  the  conduct  of  the  exer- 
cises of  instruction  and  the  teacher  is  present  merely  to  main- 
tain a  sort  of  parliamentary  order  (which  requires  but  very 
little  oversight)   and  to  give  the  actual  information  which 
the  children  do  not  possess,  and  for  this  purpose  he  employs 
as  an  aid  either  his  memory  or  an  encyclopedia  ready  at 
hand.     Students  of  pedagogy  who  visited  his  classes  after- 
ward complained  to  the  leader  that  the  children  sat  around 
In  such  disorderly  fashion,  that  each  particular  child  sat  at 
its  desk  in  a  different  attitude,  and  nothing  at  all  was  to  be 
seen  of  the  order  that  is  carried  out  in  a  military  way  in  a 
normal  class.    Otto  was  accustomed  to  answer  this  by  saying 
that  in  the  beginning  he,  too,  had  endeavored  to  bring  about 
greater  uniformity;  but  the  difficulty  of  attaining  orderli- 
ness  while  the  children  were  following  with  eager  interest 
the  content  of  the  subject-matter  under  discussion  had  led 
him,  from  a  pedagogical  point  of  view,  to  forego  this  re- 


fM 


LI" 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

quirement.  And  not  until  I  had  called  his  attention  to  the 
fact  that  the  matter  was  a  simple  question  of  the  law  of  the 
conservation  of  energy,  that  a  child  could  not  at  one  and  the 
same  time  give  Its  complete  attention  to  the  content  of  the 
questions  posed  and  give  heed  to  the  position  in  which  it  sat 
at  its  desk,  and  that  a  demand  made  in  the  one  direction 
necessarily  resulted  in  a  diminution  In  the  other, -not  until 
then,  I  say,  was  a  theoretical  motive  shown  for  that  which 
his  pedagogical  instinct  had  led  him  to  see  was  right. 

The  same  observations  may  be  made  concerning  the  much 
discussed  question  of  the  independence  of  the  teacher  as  re- 
gards the  managing  of  the  children  and  the  treatment  of  the 
subject  taught.    If  one  watches  a  group  of  workmen  at  work, 
one  will  find  that  almost  every  one  of  them  handles  his  tools 
In  an  Individual  manner.    This  is  due  to  the  fact  that  all  men 
differ  from  one  another,  and  that  the  conditions  under  which 
each  of  them  uses  a  particular  tool  most  practically  must 
accordingly  differ  from  one  another.    The  dissimilarity  of 
teachers  in  mental  as  well  as  physical  organization  must  nec- 
essarily cause  their  methods  of  Instruction  to  differ.    Every 
form  of  coercion  that  does  not  take  these  personal  differ- 
ences Into  consideration,  and  that  seeks  to  bring  about  a  unl- 
formlty  not  justified  by  weighty  reasons,  only  serves  to 
diminish  in  the  teacher  the  quality-ratio  of  the  work  of  in- 
struction.    From  these  observations  we  shall  have  to  con- 
clude again  that  uniformity  is  to  be  striven  for  only  In  so  far 
as  It  Is  shown  to  be  urgently  necessary  for  the  organization 
of  the  school  system  as  a  whole;  that  in  drawing  the  line 
between  freedom  and  constraint,  however.  It  Is  better  In  case 
of  doubt  to  place  our  line  of  demarcation  more  toward  the 
side  of  freedom  than  toward  the  side  of  uniformity.    In  such 
circumstances  there  exists  a  greater  probability  of  better 
quality-ratio  In  the  functions  of  the  system  of  instruction  as 

[886] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

a  whole,  and  this,  after  all,  should  be  the  chief  aim  of  all 
educational  administration. 

Yet  another  great  division  of  our  subject  remains  to  be 
treated  finally,  namely,  that  of  the  application  of  sociology 
to  the  school.  For  even  though  pedagogy  comes  under  the 
head  of  applied  sociology,  this  does  not  mean,  after  all,  that 
it  stands  isolated  from  the  other  branches  of  this  science. 
On  the  contrary,  since  it  is  a  question  of  applied  method,  we 
must  investigate  the  entire  range  of  sociology  in  connection 
with  its  influence  on  pedagogy  and  its  method  of  application. 
We  see  at  once  that  we  are  confronted  by  an  almost  inex- 
haustible problem.  Here  again  we  shall  have  to  content 
ourselves  with  a  few  brief  suggestions  as  to  how  far  the 
application  of  scientific  sociology  influences,  on  the  one  hand, 
the  method,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  the  content,  of  Instruc- 
tion. 

Now  as  to  method.  It  Is  a  question  of  consciously  linking 
our  growing  youth,  by  means  of  education,  to  the  whole 
cultural  fabric  of  the  present;  and  one  sees  at  once  how  far- 
reaching  and  elucidating  is  the  light  which  falls,  owing  to 
this  relationship,  upon  our  present  educational  system.  Quite 
an  important  part  of  secondary  education  (a  short  time  ago 
one  had  to  say  the  vastly  greater  part  of  it)  hinges  upon  the 
acquisition  of  the  two  ancient  languages,  Latin  and  Greek; 
and  the  so-called  humanistic  or  rather  philological  gymna- 
sium insists  upon  the  tenet  that  by  the  acquisition  of  these 
languages,  and  of  the  old  culture  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans 
connected  therewith,  by  far  the  best  means  for  the  attain- 
ment of  culture  is  placed  at  the  disposal  of  modern  man.  The 
former  point  of  view,  that  the  culture  of  the  ancients  was  so 
incomparably  superior  to  all  other  possible  cultures  that  we 
for  our  part  can  only  hope  to  attain  to  a  certain  degree  of 
perfection  by  the  imitation  of  their  attainments,  is  still  prac- 

1:8873 


[\ 


I  » 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

tically  held;  theoretically,  however,  it  has  essentially  been 
given  up.    For  the  representatives  of  the  philological  gym- 
nasium are  now  attempting  to  establish  their  system  upon  es- 
sentially different  grounds,  since  both  classical  philology  and 
archaeology  have  also  begun  to  incorporate  the  history  and 
works  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans  in  all  the  events  of  the 
history  of  the  world,  and  especially  to  occupy  a  more  critical 
attitude  toward  the  products  of  their  art  and  philosophy. 
On  general  principles,  the  following  must  be  emphasized  in 
this  connection :  The  fact  that  man  is  a  being  capable  ot 
development,  that  his  present  conditions  of  existence  are 
therefore  better,  nobler,  more  favorable-in  a  word,  more 
valuable-than  his  earlier  circumstances  were  (all  of  this  to 
be  taken  on  a  basis  of  general  average) ,  necessitates  a  differ- 
ent appreciation  of  old  things  as  compared  with  the  new 
Owing  to  a  natural  error  whose  obviously  possible  origin  1 
have  explained  in  another  connection,'  we  have  arrived  at 
an  overestimation  of  old  things,  in  comparison  with  those 
that  we  now  have,  which  has  repeatedly  led  to  confusion  of 
thought  in  our  cultural  work  and  prevented  us  from  attain- 
ing a  right  point  of  view.    If  we  look  at  the  matter  simply 
and  soberly,  it  does  not  admit  of  a  doubt  that  those  peop  es 
whom  we  are  accustomed  to  call  the  ancients  were  actually 
young;  they  lived  some  thousands  of  years  earlier  than  we, 
and  our  civilization  has  been  able  to  evolve  by  employing  all 
the  cultural  results  won  by  those  earlier  and  younger  peo- 
ples.    Expressed  in  other  words,  this  means  that,  viewed 
from  the  stage  that  we  occupy  in  man's  development,  we 
people  of  the  present  day  are  the  oldest  of  all  peoples,  the 
ripest,  the  most  developed,  the  people  who  culturally  stand 
highest,  and  all  other,  earlier  stages  of  human  development 
stand,  as  compared  with  the  present,  in  a  backward  position 

1  Cf.  "Die  Forderung  des  Tages,"  S.  282. 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

for  the  reason  that  humanity  at  present  can  and  may  use 
what  humanity  in  the  past  has  laboriously  produced.    In  this 
connection,  of  course,  we  must  take  into  consideration  the 
fact  that  the  road  upon  which  man  has  developed  in  the  past, 
especially  in  the  earlier  ages,  was  not  a  road  continuously 
rising,  but  rather  it  ascended  and  descended  in  great  waves. 
There  arose,  especially  after  the  destruction  of  the  culture  of 
antiquity  by  the  migrations  of  the  nations,  a  cultural  vacuum 
for  the  filling  of  which  the  remains  of  earlier  culture  first  had 
to  be  drawn  upon.    But  in  the  meantime  we  have  long  since 
passed   beyond   this   void.      Great   new   and    fundamental 
realms  of  culture,  especially  in  the  sciences,  have  been  dis- 
closed; and  should  we  compare  our  present  condition  with 
that  of  the  Greeks,  or  even  of  the  Romans,  we  could  boast 
without  any  exaggeration  of  a  much  higher  degree  of  prog- 
ress.    The  single  circumstance  alone,  that  for  hundreds  of 
years  mankind  has  been  taking  into  its  service  various  kinds 
of  inorganic  energy,  especially  from  fossil  coal,  means  such 
an  enormous  freeing  of  human  labor  from  the  monotonous 
toil  of  muscle  without  any  addition  of  mind,  that  by  this  very 
fact  alone  our  claim  is  established  that  we  stand  upon  quite 
a  different  height  of  culture  from  any  that  could  ever  have 
been  reached  by  the  peoples  of  antiquity.    Did  not  Aristotle, 
in  complete  accord  with  the  point  of  view  of  his  time,  em- 
phasize the  fact  that  slavery  would  never  cease  because  one 
could  not  otherwise  conceive  how  the  rest  of  humanity  would 
be  able  to  get  flour  for  their  food?    So,  in  the  last  analysis, 
one  sees  there  is  nothing  in  making  use  of  the  civilization  of 
antiquity  as  our  highest  ideal  of  culture.    An  ideal,  as  I  have 
often  explained,  can  lie  only  in  the  future,  never  in  the  past; 
and  every  ideal  that  is  artificially  sought  in  the  past  is  only  a 
means  of  reaction,  and  is  from  its  very  nature  inimical  to 
culture.    Thus  we  are  experiencing  in  our  own  day  the  fact 

1:8893 


i4 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

that  the  philological  gymnasium  is  -esistibly  approach^^^^^^ 
gradual  extinction,  in  spite  of  the  constant  and  mcons  derate 
support  given  to  it  by  the  ruling  reactionary  classes  m  Ger- 
many, for  obvious  political  reasons.    The  contrast  between 
I  cdtural  needs  of  our  time  and  the  cultural  m-      th 
the  Dhilological  gymnasium  can  transmit  is  too  great  and 
g    r-mg      rVis  Lnant  from  the  Middle  Ages,  that  was 
%Iy  galvanized  anew  a  hundred  years  ago,  to  be  kep 
aUve  in  the  long  run.    The  yearly  increasing  attendance  a 
tte  non-philological  Institutions,  as  is  shown  by  statistics  that 
aremore  and  more  favorable  to  them,  speaks  in  a  language 
which  in  this  connection  is  not  ambiguous. 

Now.  by  an  illogical  application  of  the  fundamental  bio- 
genetic  law,  they  have  attempted  to  justify  the  education  of 
our  growing  youth  through  the  example  of  the  Greeks  and 
Romans,  by  saying  that  just  as  every  organism  -"^t  by  -ay 
of  short  review  pass  through  the  various  stages  of  develop- 
nient  of  Its  species,  in  the  same  way  it  is  also  --ssary  to 
mental  development  that  our  children  who  are  destined    o 
higher  education  should  also  pass  in  school  through  the 
earlier  stages  in  the  development  of  humanity.    If  this  were 
true    and  If  this  argument  were  taken  seriously,  then  our 
poor  young  gymnasium  students  would  first  have  to  learn 
Babylonian  and  Egyptian  culture  and  history  before  they 
could  be  introduced  to  the  joys  of  Latin  and  Greek  gram- 
mar    None  of  the  educationalists  have  dared  this  consistent 
application  of  the  argument  which  they  have  employed  in  the 
defense  of  teaching  Latin-«...,  not  one  of  them  has  taken 
his  own  argument  really  seriously. 

We  must  repeat,  therefore:  all  the  lower  and  higher 
school  vntrnction  at  present  must  he  determined  absolutely 
by  the  cultural  needs  of  the  present  time.  The  lack  of  socio- 
logical  training  which  has  been  brought  about  by  our  con- 

1:890:] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 
fining  ourselves  to  the  culture  of  antiquity,  and  hitherto  to  a 
purely  external  presentation  of  history  that  is  principally 
related  to  wars  and  battles,  and  to  the  establishment  and  fall 
of  empires,  cries  for  immediate  remedy.  It  has  arisen  from 
a  completely  false  conception  regarding  the  factors  of  cul- 
ture, and  the  history  of  governments  must  be  supplanted  by 
the  history  of  civilization.  A  modern  child  would  learn 
what  is  infinitely  more  valuable  and  useful  for  its  future  life 
if  it  acquired  an  accurate  grasp  of  the  development  of  agri- 
culture, of  mining,  of  transportation,  of  the  steam-engine, 
and  so  forth,  than  if  it  learned  by  heart  all  the  battles  of 
Julius  Ca?sar  down  to  the  last  details. 

The  fact  that  this  real  history  of  man's  development— the 
history  of  the  conquest  of  nature  by  mind,  or  the  history  of 
technology  and  science— is  as  yet  hardly  written,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  its  being  taught  in  the  schools,  is  clear  evidence  of  the 
small  extent  to  which  the  fundamental  sociological  facts  have 
been  employed  heretofore  as  a  subject  of  study  in  education. 
The  modern  call  for  instruction  in  sociology  merely  reflects 
the  fact  that  we  are  becoming  conscious,  little  by  little,  of  this 
oversight,  and  are  now  seeking  means  (not  always  the  most 
apt  and  suitable)  to  fill  out  this  baneful  gap  in  the  training 
of  the  modern  pupil.    In  fact,  it  is  almost  unbelievable  when 
one  calls  to  mind  the  present  situation  in  all  its  naked  truth. 
The  very  pupils  who  are  destined  in  one  way  or  another  to 
be  hereafter  the  leaders  of  the  nation  as  teachers,  judges, 
physicians,  or  ministers,  do  not  receive  during  the  most  im- 
portant period  of  their  development  in  the  gymnasium  the 
slightest  competent  enlightenment  about  the  ways  in  which 
the  cultural,  economic,  and  political  organization  of  the  Ger- 
man Empire  is  formed,  nor  how  hereafter  they  will  have  to 
co-ordinate  their  civic  life  with  its  duties  and  its  rights  in  the 
life  of  the  nation  as  a  whole. 


ili; 


f  k 


! 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

And  when,  in  conclusion,  I  come  to  speak  of  the  influence 
of  social  science  upon  the  method  of  instruction,  I  may  en- 
counter a  reproach  which  often  enough  has  been  cast  upon 
n,e  unjustly  by  those  who  feel  themselves  d^^^^ed  m   he  r 
present  prerogatives  and  positions  of  comfort      The   re- 
proach intimates  that  I  only  know  how  to  bring  destructive 
criticism  and  fruitless  fault-finding  into  the  school  question, 
and  that  I  exhibit  no  positive  or  helpful  activity  in  this  field. 
The  fact  alone  that  until  recent  years  I  had  passed  my  whole 
life_and    successfully,    for    that    matter-in    educational 
work  should  be  sufficient  to  nip  objections  of  this  kind  in  the 
very  bud.     But  when  I  have  characterized  that  which  we 
now  have  as  being  largely  in  need  of  improvement,  I  have 
done  so  over  and  over  again  by  giving  always  an  exact  ex- 
planation of  the  reasons  why  I  considered  it  bad,  and  in  so 
doing  I  have  specified  the  exact  direction  which  Improvement 
must  take.     Just  here,  in  connection  with  the  question  re- 
garding the  application  of  sociology  to  the  technique  of 
school-teaching,  opportunity  is  afforded  to  advance  a  good 
step  further  in  the  matter  before  us. 

Our  present  school  organization- and  this  fact  must  be 
placed  before  everything  else-is  not  arranged  essentially 
with  reference  to  the  greatest  possible  advancement  of  the 
child,  but  with  reference  to  the  most  convenient  administra- 
tion possible  in  the  hands  of  the  officials  in  charge.     1  he 
thought  underlying  our  whole  present  school  organization  is 
the  supposition  that  all  children  are  identical  in  character 
They  are  received  into  the  school  at  an  absolutely  prescribed 
age,  and  then  the  object  to  be  attained  is  that  from  year  to 
year  all,  in  like  periods  of  time,  take  up  and  master  the 
absolutely  prescribed  portions  of  knowledge  assigned  to 
them,  which  are  alike  for  all,  so  that  they  may  advance  each 
year  to  a  new  class,  and,  if  all  goes  well,  may  be  dismissed 

1:892;] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

after  a  normal  lapse  of  time  with  their  diplomas.  Such  a 
scheme,  of  course,  is  outwardly  more  readily  handled  than 
any  other;  for,  to  begin  with,  it  is  as  trivially  arranged  as 
could  possibly  be  imagined.  Viewed,  however,  from  the 
standpoint  of  its  pedagogical  effectiveness,  it  is  the  crudest 
imaginable,  and  therefore  the  most  barren  of  result— yes, 
the  most  harmful.  The  supposition  that  all  children  are 
organized  alike,  that  they  develop  with  the  same  rapidity, 
that  they  have  the  same  degree  of  interest  in  the  various 
subjects,  and  therefore  can  be  carried  over  similar  distances 
in  all  the  various  subjects  in  a  fixed  average  time,  contradicts 
the  facts  in  every  particular.  To  force  a  system  that  rests 
upon  this  hypothesis  can  lead  at  best  to  most  serious  conflict 
with  reality.  For  example,  we  are  already  quite  accustomed 
toward  Easter-time  to  hear  of  a  number  of  cases  of  suicide 
among  pupils,  and  of  many  other  pupils  who  have  left  home 
secretly,  either  for  fear  of  punishment  or  on  account  of 
shame  due  to  a  poor  report. 

The  contention  as  to  whether  the  school  or  the  home  is 
to  blame  for  the  situation— the  reproach  brought  by  the 
school,  for  example,  that,  owing  to  incorrect  management 
at  home,  children  are  made  nervous  and  irritable,  and  are 
therefore  no  longer  able  to  satisfy  the  necessarily  strict  de- 
mands of  the  school— Is  fruitless.  We  are  confronted  by 
the  situation  that  the  present  school  system  leads  to  these 
fearful  results  that  are  becoming  worse  each  year,  and  the 
only  conclusion  that  can  be  drawn  from  It  is  that  causes 
which  have  such  deplorable  results  must  be  eliminated. 
These  causes,  however.  He  In  the  contradiction  between  the 
school  organization  and  the  actual  characteristics  of  the 
pupil,  between  the  schematizing  of  personal  development  by 
our  school  organization  and  the  Infinite  variety  of  actual  life, 
which  is  sharply  opposed  everywhere  to  the  scheme.     In 


Vf 


):, 


k' 


u 


!»' 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 
addition  to  this,  there  is  added  a  frightful  amount  of  un- 
charitableness  toward  the  pupil,  for  which  the  teachers  of 
the  higher  schools  more  than  those  of  the  elementary  schools 
must  be  blamed,  and  this  is  due  to  the  unsuitable  trammg  of 
the  teachers.    Quite  a  considerable  portion  of  our  teachers 
in  the  gymnasiums  and  similar  institutions  consider  them- 
selves to  be  Pegasuses  in  harness.    In  the  university,  owing 
to  hunger  for  scientific  activity  on  the  part  of  their  profes- 
sors  they  are  led  into  scientific  work;  they  consider  this  their 
real'calling  in  life,  and  therefore  feel  that  a  violence  is  done 
their  minds  because  they  are  forced  to  teach  children.    The 
result  of  this  is  that  the  dissatisfaction  that  they  feel  toward 
their  profession  and  their  work  is  discharged  on  the  defense- 
less victims  in  their  classes.     And  even  though  a  conscious 
reaction  of  this  inward  discontent  upon  the  children  may 
take  place  only  in  very  rare  cases,  nevertheless  the  uncon- 
scious discharge  of  this  continuous  feeling  is  a  phenomenon 
so  natural  that  it  must  be  expected  in  all  cases  where  it  is  not 
counteracted  by  an  especially  energetic  sense  of  pedagogic 

duty.  ^    , 

The  actual  situation  is  a  contradiction  of  the  premises 

upon  which  our  present  school  organization  rests,  the  com- 
plete falsity  of  which  its  representatives  have  probably 
scarcely  ever  realized.  Everyone  who  has  seen  a  few  chil- 
dren develop  side  by  side  realizes  at  what  different  ages  the 
same  stage  of  mental  development  may  be  noted.  One  child 
learns  to  speak  in  the  first  year,  another  in  the  third,  and  the 
same  differences  may  be  recognized  in  all  forms  of  mental 
activity.  When,  therefore,  a  group  of  six-year-old  chil- 
dren in  whom  a  difference  of  almost  a  year  may  exist 
are,  under  the  formal  administration  of  regulations  de- 
termined by  the  accidental  date  of  birth,  brought  together 
before  the  teacher,  the  group  by  no  means  represents  a  uni- 

1:894:] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

form,  but  rather  an  exceedingly  heterogeneous  mass,  and 
every  teacher  knows  how  varied  and  individual  the  attitudes 
of  mind  are  that  children  assume  toward  instruction.     As 
time  passes,  these  differences  not  only  continue  to  exist,  but 
generally  become  more  marked.     The  tasks  of  the  class- 
room, however,  demand  uniformly  rapid  progress  on  the 
part  of  each  individual.    In  order  to  enhance  this  pedagog- 
ical nonsense  to  the  point  of  incredibility,  a  child  is  kept  back 
in  the  class  a  whole  year,  according  to  the  regulations,  if  it 
exhibits  a  deficiency  in  one  or  two  subjects,  regardless  of  how 
good  its  attainments  in  the  other  subjects  may  have  been. 
This  only  brings  about  a  further  disarrangement  of  mental 
poise,  for  non-advancement  means  a  further  mistreatment 
of  the  developing  child,  as  it  is  prevented  from  prosecuting 
the  very  things  which  it  can  perform  best,  and  in  which, 
therefore,  it  has  abundantly  fulfilled  the  demands  of  thJ 
school.     Instead,  the  child  must  work  at  the  disagreeable 
thing,  and  in  the  field  to  which  its  ardent  desires  are  drawn 
it  again  has  set  before  it  only  what  is  so  well  known  that  it  is 
wearied  of  it.     This  outward  schematizing  in  year-courses 
and  classes,  in  hour-divisions  alike  for  all,  and  into  lessons  in 
connection  with  which  not  the  slightest  consideration  is  paid 
to  personality,  causes  the  many  failures  in  school  and  neces- 
sitates  also  the   dismal   phenomenon   just  mentioned— the 
complete  decay  of  the  vitality  of  the  child  owing  to  the  cir- 
cumstances under  which  it  must  live. 

The  question  as  to  how  one  can  interpose  In  the  matter 
with  a  view  to  improving  conditions  Is  answered  In  a  prac- 
tical way  by  experience  in  other  fields  where  school  bureau- 
cracy, fortunately,  has  not  yet  been  permitted  to  make  its 
entrance.  From  my  own  experience  of  almost  a  quarter  of 
a  century  as  a  laboratory  teacher  of  chemistry,  I  can  say  that 
by  a  free  arrangement  of  instruction  as  regards  time  and 

1:8953 


.1/ 


\ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

content  vastly  much  more  is  accomplished  than  by  the  usual 
schematizing.  If  children  in  the  schools  were  only  treated 
just  as  we  university  professors  are  accustomed  to  treat  our 
students  in  the  laboratory,  and  as  very  young  children  are 
treated  in  the  kindergarten,  incomparably  better  results 
would  be  attained.  Each  child  is  set  at  its  task  and  attempts 
to  do  its  best  with  it,  in  proportion  to  its  attainments  and  to 
the  rapidity  of  Its  mental  reactions.  Just  as  in  the  laboratory 
we  do  not  force  the  slower  worker  and  do  not  hold  back 
those  who  work  fast,  in  exactly  the  same  way  children  should 
be  permitted  to  determine  the  rapidity  of  their  development. 
From  the  general  energetical  reasons  explained  above  it 
seems  obvious  that  In  this  way  by  far  the  best  results  will  be 

attained. 

Only  by  this  kind  of  instruction  is  it  possible  also  to  de- 
velop social  acting  and  thinking  in  children.  It  is  considered 
at  present  one  of  the  worst  school  offenses  for  one  child  to 
help  another  solve  Its  task.  The  one  receiving  the  assistance 
is  punished  as  well  as  the  one  who  was  ready  to  impart  the 
help.  Is,  then,  mutual  willingness  to  render  help  a  charac- 
teristic so  exceedingly  general  that  it  must  he  systematically 
done  away  with  in  school?  Is  not,  rather,  egoism  and  nar- 
row-mindedness a  fault  under  which  we  suffer  severely?  I 
do  not  hesitate  to  express  the  conviction  that  a  considerable 
amount  of  this  illiberallty  Is  imparted  to  our  growing  youth 
in  school  by  the  prevalent  notions  regarding  this  mutual  help 
and  the  usual  treatment  of  it. 

So  necessary  a  characteristic,  socially  speaking,  as  the 
willingness  to  be  of  mutual  assistance  should  rather  be  culti- 
vated in  every  way  possible  by  the  schools.  This,  to  be  sure, 
is  not  possible  in  the  thoughtless  schematlzatlon  of  the  pres- 
ent school  curriculum;  it  becomes,  however,  an  Important 
pedagogic  factor  as  soon  as  the  system  of  unhampered  In- 

cm;] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

struction  just  described  is  introduced.    Then  those  children 
who  learn  more  quickly  and  grasp  an  idea  more  readily  will 
become,    spontaneously,    most    effective    assistants    to    the 
teacher.     To  those  who  are  more  backward  they  will  en- 
deavor to  impart  comprehension  of  their  tasks,  and  they 
will  frequently  succeed  in  this  better  than  the  teacher  him- 
self, on  account  of  the  similarity  of  their  mental  processes 
In  this  way  there  develops  at  an  early  age  the  distinction 
between  natures  born  to  lead  and  those  requiring  leadership. 
1  he  former  are  spurred  on  to  renewed  zeal  in  their  endeav- 
ors, and  m  proportion  to  their  ability  they  may  participate 
m  mfluencmg  their  little  comrades  in  a  useful  and  fruitful 
manner;  the  others  learn  at  an  early  age  that  in  their  ad- 
vancement they  have  need  of  the  assistance  of  the  better 
endowed  ones,  and,  what  is  the  best  thing  for  all  of  them 
they  learn  subordination  and  how  to  work  in  rank  and  file. 

I  must  unfortunately  forego  explaining  here  all  the  excel- 
lent and  elevating  results  which  would  ensue  from  such  a 
really  social  development  of  our  school  system.     I  am  not 
the  first  to  express  a  thought  of  this  kind;  for  in  this  direc- 
tion, too,  the  instinctive  pedagogical  talent,  which  fortunately 
still  seems  relatively  more  abundant  in  us  Germans  than  in 
other  peoples,  has  indicated  the  right  course  to  a  few  pioneer 
spirits.    The  conception  of  the  school  as  a  social  organiza- 
tion IS  to-day  no  longer  so  strange  as  it  seemed  ten  or  twenty 
years  ago,  though  a  century  ago  a  few  leading  students  of 
pedagogy  had  already  taken  the  same  decisive  point  of  view 
But  the  application  of  scientific  system  to  pedagogical  prob- 
lems gives  us  for  the  first  time,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  the  sure 
scientific  guaranty  that  in  this  direction  the  right  course  for 
Je  development  of  our  school  system  is  really  indicated 
i  hose  things  that  were  demanded  by  these  idealistic  pio- 
neers in  the  realm  of  education,  by  reason  of  their  instinctive 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

understanding  of  the  child-soul  and  of  the  cultural  needs  of 
their  time,  by  the  application  of  basic  sociological  laws  to  the 
school  problem  are  scientifically  proved  and  systematically 
co-ordinated.  Therefore  our  age  no  longer  needs  to  be 
forced  to  wait  till  the  right  way  is  discovered  by  towering 
individual  spirits  endowed  with  the  sureness  of  the  sleep- 
walker in  the  dark;  but  it  behooves  rather  the  conscious 
scientific  thought  of  the  twentieth  century  to  recogmze  and 
to  follow  a  course  that  results  from  an  exact  and  pertinent 
consideration  of  the  facts,  as  the  mature  fruit  of  a  philo- 
sophic grasp  of  all  human  knowledge. 

WlLlIELM  OSTWALD. 


1:8983 


HENRI  POINCARE 


AMONG  the  various  ways  of  conceiving  man's  affection 
I  V  for  life  there  is  one  which  perhaps  Metchniicoff  has  not 
heretofore  investigated,  yet  in  this  one  way  that  desire  has 
a  majestic  aspect.     It  is  quite  different  from  the  way  one 
usually  regards  the  feeling  of  fear  of  death.    There  come 
moments  when  the  mind  of  a  scientist  engenders  new  ideas. 
He  sees  their  fruitfulness  and  utility,  but  he  knows  that  they 
are  still  so  vague  that  he  must  go  through  a  long  process 
of  analysis  to  develop  them  before  the  public  shall  be  able 
to  understand  and  appreciate  them  at  their  just  value.    If  he 
believes  then  that  death  may  suddenly  annihilate  this  whole 
world  of  great  thoughts,  and  that  perhaps  ages  may  go  by 
before  another  genius  discovers  them,  we  can  understand 
that  a  sudden  desire  to  live  must  seize  him,  and  the  joy  of 
his  work  must  be  confounded  with  the  fear  of  having  to 
stop  it  forever. 

We  can  imagine  Abel's  anguish  at  the  thought  of  ap- 
proaching death,  when  none  about  him  could  understand 
the  ideas  which  he  wished  to  propagate,  and  which  he  feared 
forever  lost.  We  appreciate  the  moments  that  Galois  must 
have  experienced  before  fighting  his  duel,  if  we  remember 
that  a  few  hours  before  going  on  to  the  ground  from  which 
he  should  not  return,  he  had  not  written  a  single  line  of  his 
great  discoveries. 

Poincare  died  at  the  most  brilliant  moment  of  his  career, 
in  full  vigor.     His  spirit  was  young;  original  ideas  were 

1:899:] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


.    ,_•    u     •„      niH  he  realize  that  the  world  that 
r:r2  .L^TpptacHinL  .na  ,«  .he  p,.«  o,  Kls  U« 

A..r\na  his  life     Poincare  was  ever  at  the  breacn,  a  gu 

t      „sd...h.    During  .hese, as,. hirt,  years  .he.  h. 

been  no  new  question,  connected  even  remotely  with  m  h^ 
latlcs  which  he  did  not  subject  to  his  deep  and  delicate 
TntlPisrand  enrich  with  some  discovery  or  fruitful  pomt  of 

''Tbelleve  ,1...  no  sclenris.  so  n,„ch  „  he  "vj J"  -«» 

and  intimate   relation  with  the   scientific  world  tha      u 

A  A  Wrr.     He  received  ideas  and  gave  them  by  a  process 
rounded  him     He  receiveaia^  ^^ 

of  exchange  both  rapid  and  f^^^'^^^      .       ,      ^f  ^e 
the  day  when  his  heart  ceased  to  beat.    That  i    why    f 
were  to  characterize  the  recent  penod  of    ^e  history 
Tathematics  by  a  single  name,  we  should  all  give  that  of 
?o  ncaT      r  he  has  been  without  doubt  the  most  wide  y 
LTw    a;d  celebrated  mathematician  of  recent  years.    Li   1  e 
t     i.,le  he  created  .  .yp.  of  sclen.is,  and  P^'loJ-P  «  ■  J'*' 
out  being  aware  of  it,  the  mathematicians  of  his  time    by 
means  of  subtle  sympathies  and  bonds,  grew  necessarily  into 

*  Srific  development,  .he  re.a.lons  of  science  wi.hM. 

and  of  the  general  public  with  the  scientist  have  been  greatly 

1:9003 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

changed  In  these  late  years.    The  causes  are  easy  to  under- 
stand, the  effects  striking.     Brilliant  discoveries  have  illu- 
mined every  department  of  life.     It  is  for  this  reason  that 
science  in  general  has  become  popular,  and  people  expect 
from  the  mathematical  and  physical  sciences  particularly, 
results  always  new  and  ever  more  useful.     It  may  be  that 
people  even  have  come  to  have  a  confidence  in  them  which 
surpasses  their  power.     The  scientist  who  a  few  years  ago 
stayed  hidden  in  his  study  or  in  his  laboratory  to-day  mingles 
with  other  scientists  and  with  the  public.     He  hears  the 
questions  which  are  asked  from  every  side,  and  he  must 
reply.     Too  much  urged,  he  must  sometimes  reply  before 
his  thought  Is  ripe. 

Congresses  and  scientific  reunions  have  Increased  In  num- 
ber; and  popular  presentations  and  learned  lectures,  where 
people  wish  to  know  the  last  word  of  science,  follow  each 
other  without  pause.     There  Is  no  longer  any  time  to  wait. 
Modern  life,  eager  and  tumultuous,  has  Invaded  the  quiet 
dwellings  of  the  scientists.    Some  centuries  ago  people  pub- 
lished great  volumes;  they  were  the  synthesis  of  the  thought 
of  a  man's  whole  life.     But  that  was  not  sufficient  for  the 
scientific  development  now  In  progress.     Scientific  journals 
to-day  ask  for  memoirs.  In  which  work  is  published  as  It  pro- 
gresses.   The  proceedings  of  the  academies,  short  and  pre- 
cise reviews,  have  appeared.    A  man  reports  In  a  few  words 
every  discovery  as  soon  as  he  has  made  It.    Time  presses; 
one  fears  that  the  next  minute  the  discovery  may  be  lost. 
But  the  communications  of  the  congresses,  which  no  one  has 
the  leisure  to  revise,  exceed  In  rapidity  even  the  proceedings 
of  the  academies  and  of  the  scientific  societies.    We  wish  to 
know  what  has  not  been  done.     We  say  what  we  hope  to 
find.     We  confide  that  which  we  shall  never  have  courage 
to  print.     This  development  has  created  a  particular  state 

1:9013 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

of  mind  among  scientists,  and  has  changed  their  lives,  their 
ways  of  working,  and  even  of  thmkmg. 

There  are  great  advantages  in  this  modern  scientific  hfe 
as  I  have  jus"  presented  it.     Research  has  become  almost 
collective.    The  energies  of  the  investigators  are  summed; 
";   discoveries    follow   each   other   rapidly;   compet.uon 
spurs  them  on.     Their  number  increases  from  day  to  day. 
But  how  many  objections  we  can  oppose  to  these  advan- 
fages'     What  refinement  of  detail  is  lost!     Perhaps  that 
padence,  which  for  Buffon  was  genius  itself,  has  vanished 
in  the  tumult  of  the  present  hour.     Poincare  was  a  modern 
ci  n  ist  in  the  full  meaning  of  the  word.    There  was  no  con- 
g    ss,  no  scientific  reunion  where  his  word  was  not  heard. 
Mos    of  the  scientific  journals  received  his  memoirs  and  the 
!;counts  of  his  investigations.    The  universities  of  Europe 
and  America  have  heard  his  conferences  «"d  ectures^ 

A  work  so  absorbing,  so  intense,  may  easily  overdrive  to 
the  point  of  danger  a  weak  or  sickly  constitution  Is  it  this 
excess  which  fatally  has  led  Poincare  to  the  tomb? 

Calm  and  serene  scientific  work  is  often  a  rest  for  the 
mind     The  pleasure  of  the  new  results  that  one  finds  sud- 
denly,  like  a  beautiful  landscape  at  the  turn  of^  — in 
road,  alternates  with  the  labor  of  research.      The  difficu  t  es 
of  analyzing  the  question  are  often  generously  compensated 
by    he  llufions  which  appear  at  the  precise  moment  when 
one  expects  them  least,  by  means  of  methods  which  one  could 
not  hope  to  find  useful.    The  work  which  Euler,  Lagrange, 
Gauss  knew  may  be  compared  to  a  pleasure  voyage  in  the 
finest  of  countries;  but  that  which  public  lectures  and  con- 
ferences  demand,  which  journals  ask  for  at  a  fixed  rate  very 
often  fatigues  and  irritates  like  a  long  and  rapid  tour  during 
which  one  has  no  time  to  consider  the  surrounding  beauties 
and  charms. 


f'^ 


1.11 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

I  Imagine  that  a  mind  even  so  largely  endowed  as  that  of 
Poincare,  one  that  possessed  all  the  gifts  appropriate  to 
scientist  and  author,  must  have  felt  fatigue  and  weariness 
before  a  mass  of  labor  which  year  after  year  continued  with- 
out intermission  or  rest,  and  every  day  became  more  de- 
manding and  intense.  But  modern  life  called  for  it,  and  a 
famous  man  like  Poincare,  most  popular  of  mathematicians 
and  philosophers,  could  not  refuse. 

Perhaps  he  felt  that  it  was  the  duty  of  his  genius  towards 
humanity  to  spread  abroad  his  ideas,  not  hiding  any.     He 
gave  as  he  found,  generously,  as  a  great  lord  who  has  im- 
mense  resources  and  is  sure  that  no  hasty  expenditure  can 
use  them  up.  He  did  not  hesitate  between  the  desire  to  make 
known  his  thought  to  a  great  public  and  the  fear  of  giving 
out  results  not  yet  completely  ripened.    An  unusual  lucidity 
saved  him  from  mistakes.     He  always  laid  bare  his  ideas, 
and  he  did  not  hide  his  methods.    That  ingenious  and  subtle 
way  of  giving  results  and  concealing  the  manner  of  getting 
them,  so  dear  to  the  ancients  and  always  so  tempting,  never 
appealed  to  him.     He  never  waited  to  make  complete  and 
final  his  discovery,  and  give  it  a  systematic  and  definitive 
form;  although  it  is  exceedingly  self-satisfying  to  stop  and 
investigate  from  every  side  that  which  one  has  discovered 
and  which  Is  really  one's  own.    It  is  indeed  pleasant  to  find 
new  aspects  of  it,  and  obtain  its  applications. 

But  Poincare  resisted  all  these  temptations.  He  sacrificed 
these  gratifications  of  the  scientist  to  a  high  ideal.  He  went 
ever  ahead.  New  questions  awaited  him,  and  the  time  for 
considering  the  details  of  the  old  never  came.  Indeed,  I 
believe  that  he  consistently  avoided  details  and  did  not  wish 
to  give  his  time  to  minute  questions.  It  was  not  his  business 
either  to  correct  or  to  revise  that  which  he  had  done.  The 
whole  was  everything  for  him,  the  details  nothing. 

1:903] 


11 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 
This  inherent  ardor  gave  to  his  nervous  style  a  personal 
stamp  and  character.  Perhaps  it  is  for  this  reason  also  that 
"^possible  to  compare  Poincare  and  other  mvest.ga^^^^^^^^ 
even  those  of  the  present  date.  He  -.'oo  modern  for  any 
comparison  to  be  possible.  Among  scientists  he  is  hke  an 
impressionist  among  artists,  and  I  know  of  no  other  scientific 
impressionists  among  the  great  men  of  the  past 

It  is  quite  certain  that  no  theory  like  universal  gravitation 
or  electrodynamics  will  be  attached  to  his  name,  as  to  those 
of  Newton,  Ampere  and  Maxwell.    Among  the  great  num- 
b  r  of  metLods  which  he  invented  and  developed  from  day 
to  day  are  there  any  comparable  with  those  which  mad 
famous  Archimedes  or  Lagrange?     It  would  take  a  grea 
deTl  of  time  to  distinguish  everything  that  the-  is  m  his 
w^rks,  in  order  to  say  which  of  the  seeds  th-  he  has  sown 
will  sprout,  and  which  finally  will  be  most  fruitful.     But  i 
Z  ask  to-day,  on  the  morrow  of  his  death,  at  what  level 
Ze  should  pla'ce  his  genius,  we  must  reply  that  he  has  reached 
the  altitudes  where  dwell  the  great  of  human  kind.    There 
certainly  a  philosophy  that  is  Poincare's.  and  an  ana  ysi  , 
a  mathematical  physics  and  a  mechanics  that  are  Pomcare  s, 
which  science  can  never  forget.  .      •  .        j 

His  renown  during  his  life  was  great.    Few  scientists  and 
a  very  few  mathematicians  have  had  celebrity  equal  to  his 
A  phTsicist  would  find  the  reason  for  this  in  what  I  have  jus 
been  saying,  remarking  that  his  spirit  and  the  spir^  of  b 
time  vibrated  in  unison,  and  that  he  was  in  phase  with  the 
universal  vibration.     Some  great  scientists  have  labored, 
urged  by  an  internal  force,  without  hearing  or  concerning 
themselves  with  those  about  them.     They  have  been  mis- 
understood.   The  pitch  of  their  voices  was  not  in  harmony 
with  that  of  their  times,  and  they  uttered  tones  which  re- 
sounded only  in  later  generations. 

1:9043 


'^ 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Nothing  is  harder  than  to  prophesy  the  reputation  of  a 
scientist.  History  has  given  too  many  contradictions  to 
obvious  prophecies.  Will  not  what  one  wonders  at  to-day  be 
unessential  to-morrow?  But  it  is  impossible  that  Poincare's 
voice  shall  not  be  heard  in  future  times.  The  questions  that 
he  treated  are  so  important  and  fundamental  that  a  great 
number  of  investigations  will  follow  those  which  he  com- 
menced. His  works  will  be  studied  in  detail,  and  by  many. 
They  will  form  a  very  precious  mine  for  all  the  scientists  to 
come.  The  wealth  of  it,  even  at  the  present  moment,  we 
can  surmise. 

These  last  few  words  explain  what  I  am  going  to  talk 
about.  It  is  impossible  to  summarize  surely  and  adequately 
the  entire  work  of  Poincare,  and  to  give  a  complete  survey 
of  his  mind  and  his  wonderful  activity.  But  I  wish  to  devote 
to  him  this  lecture.  His  voice  should  have  sounded  here  in 
this  solemn  event,  and  the  Rice  Institute  should  have  been 
inaugurated  also  under  the  auspices  of  his  illustrious  name. 
I  shall  endeavor  to  recall,  then,  a  very  small  number  of  his 
discoveries,  by  trying  to  trace  their  principal  characters,  and 
to  show  their  place  in  reference  to  the  time  when  they  were 
developed. 

I  hope  to  be  excused  if  I  recall  facts  already  known,  and 
if  I  consider  a  few  details  that  are  elementary.  But  since 
I  cannot  be  complete  I  must  be  clear,  and  I  shall  therefore 
aim  not  to  describe  matters  in  a  difficult  manner.  I  hope 
that  you  will  understand  my  selections  from  his  works:  I 
have  endeavored  to  take  them  from  various  branches  of 
mathematics  in  order  to  show  the  development  of  sev^eral 
of  his  speculations. 

I  begin  with  the  one  of  Poincare's  investigations  that  first 
brought  him  to  the  attention  of  the  mathematical  world,  and 
at  once  showed  his  great  talent  in  analysis.     This  is  the 

1:905:1 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

theory  of  linear  differential  equations  and  of  Fuchsian  func- 
tions. 

The  theory  of  functions  was  the  most  important  conquest 

of  analysis  during  the  last  century.  I  did  not  hesitate  at  the 
Congress  of  Mathematicians  at  Paris  to  call  the  nineteenth 
century  the  century  of  the  theory  of  functions,  as  the  eigh- 
teenth might  have  been  called  that  of  infinitesimal  calculus. 
An  intuitive  idea,  like  the  idea  of  function  which  everybody 
possesses,  and  which  is  related  to  the  most  elementary  concep- 
tions of  quantities  which  vary  with  constant  laws,  gradually 
has  invaded  the  whole  subject  of  mathematics.  Analytic 
geometry  and  the  infinitesimal  calculus  gave  it  a  start;  alge- 
bra gave  a  great  impulse  to  its  systematic  study;  and 
Lagrange  was  able  to  write  the  first  theory  of  analytic  func- 
tions, the  celebrated  work  in  which  are  found  the  germs  of 
later  progress.  It  is  only  by  the  enlargement  of  the  field  of 
variables  that  the  theory  has  been  built  up  in  a  precise 
manner.  It  was  necessary  to  consider  imaginary  and  complex 
values  in  order  to  be  able  to  explain  the  most  hidden  and 
most  important  properties  of  functions.  To  study  a  function 
without  considering  its  imaginary  and  complex  values  would 
in  many  cases  be  like  wishing  to  know  a  book  by  looking  at 
what  is  written  on  the  back,  without  reading  the  pages  that 

are  inside. 

Cauchy,  Riemann  and  Weierstrass  have  assisted  us  most 
In  the  reading  of  this  mysterious  book.  All  of  their  ge- 
nius was  necessary  to  lay  bare  to  us  Its  most  interesting 

secrets. 

But,  as  often  happens,  a  general  theory  can  be  developed 
only  by  means  of  a  profound  study  of  a  particular  class  of 
the  objects  which  one  is  considering.  Always  some  guide 
is  necessary  to  provide  orientation  in  a  new  region  which 
has  not  yet  been  explored.    The  guide  in  the  theory  of  func- 

1:906;] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

tlons  has  been  the  detailed  study  of  elliptic  functions.  A 
great  many  questions  of  algebra,  of  mechanics,  of  geometry, 
and  of  physics  lead  to  the  development  of  this  branch  of 
analysis,  which  has  followed  so  closely  that  of  the  trigo- 
nometric functions:  the  elementary  functions  which  Euler 
had  already  shown  to  be  related  to  the  logarithms  and 
exponentials. 

The  history  of  elliptic  functions  Is  well  known.  It  has 
been  written  many  times,  because  It  is  perhaps  the  most 
interesting  part  of  the  history  of  mathematics.  We  pass 
from  surprise  to  surprise  In  passing  from  one  step,  which 
we  believe  to  be  the  most  important  of  its  development,  to 
another,  which  brings  forth  new  discoveries  and  new  sur- 
prises. It  has  happened  that  the  general  theory  of  functions 
as  well  as  all  the  other  particular  branches  which  are  related 
to  it  has  been  cast  upon  the  model  of  the  theory  of  elliptic 
functions,  and  thus  it  Is  that  the  theory  of  Fuchsian  func- 
tions, which  represents  the  latest  of  these  constructions,  fol- 
lows It  also,  in  Its  essential  features,  according  to  the  plan 
of  Poincare. 

As  Is  well  known,  the  principles  upon  which  the  theory 
of  elliptic  functions  Is  constructed  are  three:  the  theorem  of 
addition,  the  principle  of  Inversion  and  that  of  double  peri- 
odicity. Everybody  has  learned  in  the  elements  of  trigo- 
nometry that  the  sine  and  cosine  of  a  sum  of  two  arcs  can 
be  calculated  from  the  sines  and  cosines  of  the  arcs  them- 
selves, by  means  of  very  simple  algebraic  formulae.  In  Its 
specific  form  the  theorem  of  addition  of  elliptic  functions  is 
quite  similar  to  that  which  we  have  spoken  of.  It  Is  not, 
however,  under  this  aspect  that  It  first  appeared.  Fagnano, 
an  Italian  Investigator  who  made  part  of  no  scientific  circle 
but  possessed  great  talent,  recognized  it  in  the  geometric 
properties  of  a  special  curve— the  lemnlscate  of  Bernoulli. 

1:9073 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

The  genius  of  Euler  was  necessary  to  show  the  true  nature 
of  this  property  and  to  develop  it  in  all  its  generality. 

Another  most  subtle  property,  made  evident  only  much 
later,  is  that  of  double  periodicity.  The  periodicity  of  trig- 
onometric functions  comes  immediately  from  their  very  defi- 
nitlon.  The  double  periodicity  of  elliptic  functions  was 
not  discovered  until  Abel  and  Jacobl  established  the  prin- 
ciple of  inversion-that  is  to  say,  when  they  had  taken  the 
whole  theory  from  the  reverse  side.  Legendre,  who  thought 
the  theory  already  complete,  had  to  learn  that  he  had  not 
yet  investigated  its  most  fundamental  conceptions. 

Abel  and  Jacobl  kept  on  in  the  route  which  they  had  struck 
out.  The  general  theory  of  the  integrals  of  algebraic  func- 
tions was  systematically  constructed  upon  the  theorem  of 
Abel,  which  is  an  extension  of  the  theorem  of  addition,  upon 
the  principle  of  inversion  which  Jacobi  demonstrated  for 
the  first  time  in  complete  generality,  upon  multiple  periodic- 
ity, and  finally,  upon  the  use  of  certain  functions  which  are 
called  Jacobian  functions. 

The  principle  of  inversion  under  a  new  form,  the  exten- 
sion of  the  idea  of  periodicity,  and  a  modified  type  of  Ja- 
cobian function  were  carried  over  at  one  stroke  by  Poincare 
into  the  new  domain-that  of  linear  differential  equations. 
It  was  that  which  constituted  his  work  of  analysis  upon 

Fuchslan  functions. 

After  quadratures,  the  great  problem  of  infinitesimal  cal- 
culus Is  the  Integration  of  differential  equations.  The  most 
simple  differential  equations  are  the  linear  ones.  We  get  an 
equation  of  this  sort  if  we  imagine  a  relation  of  the  first 
degree  to  hold  between  the  displacement  of  a  particle,  its 
velocity,  and  its  acceleration,  the  coefficients  of  the  equation 
depending  In  an  arbitrary  manner  upon  the  time.  The  par- 
ticular  equation  that  we  have  just  defined  Is  of  the  second 

1:908] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

order,  because  the  velocity  is  the  first  derivative,  and  the 
acceleration  is  the  second  derivative,  of  the  displacement; 
but  we  can  imagine  linear  equations  where  derivatives  ap- 
pear of  any  order,  and  which  are  accordingly  of  higher  order 
than  the  second. 

Lagrange  and  many  other  mathematicians  studied  these 
equations,  but  Gauss  investigated  a  special  class  of  them 
completely.  He  connected  them  to  their  series,  which  was 
the  hypergeometrlc  series.  Rlemann  went  still  further  into 
these  questions.  He  published  a  celebrated  paper  upon  the 
subject ;  and  after  his  death  results  of  the  greatest  Importance 
were  found  among  his  manuscripts.  It  seems  that  Weler- 
strass,  without  having  published  anything,  had  also  discov- 
ered much  relating  thereto.  But  we  owe  to  Fuchs  an  article, 
appearing  In  1886,  which  called  the  attention  of  the  entire 
scientific  world  to  the  new  manner  of  considering  linear 
differential  equations.  If  we  wish  to  form  an  Idea  of  the 
new  level  to  which  Fuchs  and  his  predecessors  had  carried 
the  question,  we  have  only  to  compare  it  with  the  theory  of 
elliptic  functions  at  the  time  of  Legendre— that  is  to  say, 
before  Abel  and  Jacobi  appeared  upon  the  scene. 

And  yet  advances  had  already  been  made  into  the  new 
subject  about  to  be  developed,  since  the  theory  of  the  modu- 
lar function  was  known. 

The  integrals  of  uniform  functions  are  reproduced  with 
the  exception  of  an  additive  constant  when  the  variable  per- 
forms a  closed  circuit  round  singular  points.  This  property 
is  the  origin  of  the  periodicity  of  elliptic  functions.  In  the 
same  way,  the  set  of  fundamental  integrals  of  a  linear  equa- 
tion with  uniform  coeflicients  is  subjected  to  a  linear  trans- 
formation on  going  around  a  singular  point.  We  seek  in 
this  remarkable  fact  the  key  to  the  properties  of  those  func- 
tions which  can  be  obtained  from  the  linear  differential  equa- 

1:9093 


t. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 
tlons,  by  a  procedure  analogous  to  that  of  the  inversion  of 
elliptic  integrals. 

If  the  equation  is  of  the  second  order,  the  ratio  of  two 
fundamental  integrals  undergoes  a  linear  substitution  on 
performing  a  closed  circuit  round  a  singularity. 

We  see  then  that  the  independent  variable  regarded  as  a 
function  of  the  ratio  of  the  two  integrals  must  remain  invari- 
ant of  certain  linear  substitutions  executed  upon  this  ratio. 
The  property  which  was  to  replace  that  of  periodicity  was 
thus  found,  and  at  the  same  time  the  principle  of  inversion. 
Poincare  started  from  this  fundamental  idea  and  interpreted 
geometrically  that  which  we  have  just  called  a  linear  sub- 
stitution. He  started  a  systematic  study  of  those  substitu- 
tions which  belong  to  a  single  discontinuous  group,  because 
it  is  evident  that  uniform  functions  which  remain  invariant 
of  continuous  groups  cannot  be  other  than  constants. 

Linear  substitutions  correspond  geometrically  to  trans- 
formations of  the  plane  by  means  of  inversions  by  reciprocal 
radii,  united  with  reflections.  They  play  a  very  important 
part  in  non-Euclidean  geometry,  as  several  geometers, 
among  others  Beltrami,  had  already  shown.  Poincare  dis- 
tinguishes two  kinds  of  groups,  those  which  he  calls  the 
Kleinian  groups,  which  are  the  most  general  discontinuous 
groups,  and  the  Fuchsian  groups.  These  last,  interpreted 
geometrically,  leave  the  real  axis  fixed;  but  by  composition 
with  a  certain  new  substitution  they  leave  a  circle  invariant. 
It  is  this  circle  which  Poincare  calls  the  fundamental  circle. 

The  finding  of  all  these  discontinuous  groups  is  in  this 
manner  reduced  to  the  consideration  of  the  possible  regular 
divisions  of  the  plane  and  of  space.  Poincare  distinguished 
between  Fuchsian  substitutions  of  different  families,  and 
obtained  the  corresponding  groups.  He  then  had  actually 
to  construct  the  functions  which  remained  invariant  of  the 

[910] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

substitutions    of    these    groups.      These    are    the    so-called 
Fuchsian  functions. 

Jacobi,  starting  from  elliptic  functions,  had  arrived  at 
a  function  which  he  called  0— that  is  to  say,  the  Jacobian 
function.  It  is  not  periodic,  but  possesses  what  is  called 
periodicity  of  the  third  kind,  because  increasing  the  variable 
by  one  period  reproduces  the  function,  multiplied  by  certain 
exponentials.  Jacobi  showed  that  the  simplest  way  to  obtain 
the  theory  of  elliptic  functions  was  first  to  define  directly 
this  function  0  by  means  of  a  series,  finding  its  properties 
by  algebraic  methods,  and  then  afterwards  to  calculate  the 
doubly  periodic  functions  as  ratios  formed  by  the  0  func- 
tions. 

Poincare  followed  a  similar  method  for  the  Fuchsian 
functions.  He  started  by  calculating  the  Fuchsian  0  func- 
tions by  means  of  series,  and  then  found  the  changes  that 
they  underwent  by  performing  upon  the  variable  the  linear 
substitutions  of  a  Fuchsian  group.  Certain  ratios  formed 
by  these  Fuchsian  0's  remain  unchanged  when  the  variable 
is  subjected  to  substitutions  of  the  same  group. 

It  Is  thus  that  the  new  transcendental  functions  were  in- 
vented. By  their  Introduction  into  mathematics  a  new  field 
of  analysis  was  created.  We  shall  not  enter  Into  the  details 
of  the  properties  of  these  new  functions,  upon  their  connec- 
tion with  algebraic  functions,  or  with  Abelian  or  other 
transcendental  functions.  Neither  shall  we  speak  of  a  large 
number  of  questions  of  arithmetic,  algebra  and  analysis 
which  are  related  to  them. 

But  we  must  say  a  word  about  the  relation  of  the  Fuchsian 
functions  with  the  Integrals  of  linear  differential  equations 
that  have  algebraic  coefficients.  The  direction  here  taken 
by  Poincare  Is  similar  to  the  one  which  we  follow  when  we 
express  Abelian  Integrals  by  means  of  the  generalized  0 

1:911;] 


»  i 


•I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

functions  of  Jacobi-that  is,  by  means  of  the  Abelian  0's. 
Following  this  method,  Poincare  introduced  the  Fuchsian 
Zeta  functions,  deriving  them  from  the  Fuchsian  0.  These 
are  transcendental   functions  that  express  the   desired  m- 

tegrals.  .       . 

It  has  been  asked  several  times,  Have  the  Fuchsian  func- 
tions  applications?  But  one  can  answer  with  the  question: 
What  does  it  mean  for  a  theory  to  have  applications?  Does 
the  touchstone  of  a  theory  consist  in  its  use  in  mechamcs  or 
physics?  Did  the  theory  of  conies  which  the  Greeks  raised 
to  such  a  high  state  of  perfection  take  its  honorable  place 
in  geometry  only  upon  the  day  when  people  believed  that 
those  curves  were  the  orbits  of  planets?  Was  it  not  already 
a  great  artistic  monument,  without  reference  to  any  practical 

application? 

But  we  must  not  spend  time  upon  these  matters  outside 
of  our  subject.    Let  us  now  abandon  analysis  and  pass  along 

to  other  questions. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  mathematical  physics.  Through 
ancient  habit  we  regard  them  as  belonging  to  a  single  branch 
and  generally  teach  them  in  the  same  courses,  but  their 
natures  are  quite  different.  In  most  cases  the  people  who 
are  greatly  interested  in  one  despise  somewhat  the  other. 
The  first  kind  consists  in  a  difficult  and  subtle  analysis  con- 
nected  with  physical  questions.  Its  scope  is  to  solve  in  a 
complete  and  exact  manner  the  problems  which  it  presents 
to  us  It  endeavors  also  to  demonstrate  by  rigorous  methods 
statements  which  are  fundamental  from  mathematical  and 

logical  points  of  view. 

I  believe  I  do  not  err  when  I  say  that  many  physicists  look 
upon  this  mathematical  flora  as  a  collection  of  parasitic 
plants  grown  to  the  great  tree  of  natural  philosophy.  But 
perhaps  this  disdain  is  not  justified.     In  the  evolution  of 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

mathematical  physics  these  researches  probably  are  to  play 
ever  an  increasing  part. 

Explain  to  a  child  the  first  propositions  of  Euclid.  It  is 
not  the  geometric  properties  which  surprise  him;  rather,  that 
it  is  necessary  to  prove  them,  because  his  mind  is  not  experi- 
enced enough  to  doubt  their  obviousness.  In  the  same  way, 
certain  theorems  which  are  demonstrated  in  mathematical 
physics  produce  upon  some  people  a  similar  surprise. 

We  are  not  familiar  with  the  development  of  geometry 
before  Euclid,  and  we  see  therefore  the  complete  work.  It 
is  quite  probable  that  in  the  progress  of  geometry  there  were 
periods  when  feelings  similar  to  those  of  which  we  have  just 
been  speaking  existed,  and  little  by  little  passed  away. 

The  other  kind  of  mathematical  physics  has  a  less  analyti- 
cal character,  but  forms  a  subject  inseparable  from  any  con- 
sideration of  phenomena.  We  could  expect  no  progress  in 
their  study  without  the  aid  which  this  brings  them.  Could 
any  one  imagine  the  electromagnetic  theory  of  light,  the 
experiments  of  Hertz  and  wireless  telegraphy,  without  the 
mathematical  analysis  of  Maxwell,  which  was  responsible 
for  their  birth? 

Poincare  led  in  both  kinds  of  mathematical  physics.  He 
was  an  extraordinary  analyst,  but  had  also  the  mind  of  a 
physicist.  We  shall  seek  for  the  proof  of  this  among  his 
works. 

The  memoir  that  appeared  in  1894  in  the  "RendicontI  di 
Palermo"  is  one  of  his  most  interesting  papers.  It  bears  the 
title,  *'On  the  Equations  of  Mathematical  Physics."  The  au- 
thor presents  the  question  which  he  is  about  to  treat  in  a 
short  introduction,  where  he  recalls  the  work  of  some  of 
those  who  preceded  him.  But  the  question  has  a  long  his- 
tory of  which  I  shall  speak  somewhat. 

Let  me  begin  by  saying  that  the  work  has  a  character 

1:9133 


- -1 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

which  is  essentially  analytic,  and  that  it  belongs  to  the  mathe- 
matical physics  of  the  first  kind.    In  precisely  what  then  con- 
sists  the  interest  of  this  question,  which  so  many  mathema- 
ticians have  investigated?     No  physicist  would  doubt    for 
example,  that  an  elastic  membrane  could  emit  an  infinite 
number  of  notes,  and  that  there  would  be  an  infinite  d.scon- 
tinuous  scale  of  them,  going  from  the  lowest  tone  to  the 
highest.     The  example  of  sounds  produced  by  an  elastic 
cord  or  by  a  rod  is  sufficient  to  suggest  what  ought  to  happen 
when  one  passes  from  the  case  of  a  single  dimension  to  that 
of  two  dimensions,  and  even  what  ought  to  result  from  the 
consideration  of  a  vibrating  body  of  three  dimensions.    But 
for  mathematicians  it  was  necessary  to  give  a  rigorous  proot, 
and  this  proof  was  complicated  and  hard  to  find.    We  must 
not  even  suppose  that  the  analytic  investigation  had  the  aim 
of  calculating  the  pitches  of  the  various  notes.    Any  practical 
application  of  the  calculation  was  quite  far  from  the  thought 
of  the  mathematician.    It  was  only  the  logical  pomt  o    view 
which  gave  importance  to  the  question.     Its  difficu  ty  in- 
creased its  attraction  and  it  thus  became  a  question  of  com- 
pelling interest.  , 

Physicists  were  intuitively  aware  of  the  result,  not  merely 
on  account  of  the  analogy  of  which  I  have  just  spoken   but 
also  from  a  certain  process  of  induction  which  has  a  philo- 
sophic value  of  the  highest  order,  and  which  can  be  regarded 
as  the  source  of  several  Investigations  which  continued  after 
Poincare.    Lagrange  had  devoted  a  chapter  of  his  "Analytic 
Mechanics"  to  the  theory  of  small  motions.    This  chapter  is 
one  of  the  finest  of  his  work.    The  author  was  able  to  carry 
through  all  the  integrations  in  the  case  which  he  was  con- 
sidering, and  obtained  very  simple  and  interesting  formulae. 
The  periods  of  vibration  of  any  set  of  molecules,  finite  in 
number,  connected  among  each  other  by  arbitrary  restramts, 
were  obtained  by  Lagrange  by  means  of  the  roots  ot  an 

1:914:] 


M 

i 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

algebraic  equation.  Now  any  system  can  evidently  be  con- 
sidered as  a  collection  of  molecules  arranged  in  a  space  of 
one,  two  or  three  dimensions  according  as  we  consider  a 
cord,  a  stretched  membrane  or  a  solid  body.  It  is  sufficient 
then  to  replace  the  finite  number  of  molecules  of  Lagrange 
by  these  collections  which  we  have  mentioned  in  order  to 
extend  his  results  to  the  different  cases.  This  is  really  what 
is  called  Lord  Rayleigh's  principle,  and  gives  a  very  clear 
and  suggestive  point  of  view  in  regard  to  the  bearing  0.^  the 
problem.  But  this  principle  was  not  sufficient  demonstration 
for  mathematicians. 

The  question  which  we  have  just  been  considering  from 
the  point  of  view  of  the  theory  of  sound,  is  presented  also, 
either  in  quite  the  same  manner  or  in  similar  form,  in  several 
other  questions  of  mathematical  physics.  We  meet  it  when 
we  consider  other  vibrations  which  are  not  acoustical  — for 
Instance,  those  that  are  electromagnetic.  We  meet  it  also  in 
questions  of  another  nature,  such  as  those  of  the  theory  of 
heat. 

A  single  result  had  been  demonstrated  rigorously  since 
1885,  in  such  a  way  as  to  satisfy  every  mathematician.    That 
was  the  analytic  proof  of  the  existence  of  the  fundamental 
tone— that  is  to  say,  the  one  which  corresponds  to  the  ab- 
sence of  nodes  and  nodal  lines  in  the  vibrating  membrane. 
Schwartz  had  obtained  that  result  when  studying  certain 
questions  of  a  different  nature.    For  a  long  time  he  had  been 
developing  the  theory  of  minimal  surfaces— that  is  to  say, 
the  surfaces  of  equilibrium  of  a  very  thin  liquid  layer  In 
which  there  is  a  surface  tension   (for  instance,  a  layer  of 
water  in  which  soap  is  dissolved).     In  the  problem  of  the 
calculus  of  variations,  to  which  he  was  led,  it  was  necessary 
to  distinguish  the  maxima  from  the  minima.     He  was  thus 
led  to  consider  the  following  question:  A  function  of  two 
variables  vanishes  at  the  boundary  of  a  region  of  two  dimen- 

1:9153 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 
sions.  The  ratio  of  the  value  of  its  differential  parameter 
of  the  second  order  to  its  own  value  is  a  negative  constant 
at  all  points  of  the  region.  What  is  the  smallest  absolute 
value  of  this  constant?  Now  the  problem  of  the  notes  pro- 
duced by  the  vibrations  of  the  membrane  consists  m  finding 
all  the  values  of  this  ratio.  That  is  why  Schwartz's  problem 
is  only  a  particular  case  of  the  one  we  are  considering. 

The  question  then  was  to  proceed  to  calculate  all  the  other 
values  beyond  Schwartz's  minimum.  Already  M.  P.card  had 
discovered  properties  of  the  greatest  importance  in  this  di- 
rection, and  Poincare  had  attacked  the  problem  in  a  work 
which  was  published  in  the  American  "Journal  o  Mathe- 
matics," but  it  must  be  confessed  that  in  this  work  he  was 
still  far  from  the  solution.  He  took  his  revenge  in  the  paper 
which  we  are  about  to  examine. 

We  should  guess  from  Lagrange's  theorem  and  Lord 
Rayleigh's  principle  that  the  different  pitches  ought  to  ap- 
pear as  the  roots  of  a  transcendental  function.  It  was  the 
construction  of  one  of  these  functions,  or,  more  particularly, 
the  proof  of  its  existence,  that  Poincare  attempted.    Let  us 

see  how.  .  . 

He  commences  by  adding  a  term  to  his  equation-that 

is,  he  considers  one  that  is  made  up  of  three  terms.     The 

first    is   the    differential    parameter   of   the    second   order, 

the  second  is  the  unknown  function  multiplied  by  a  param- 

eter,  and  the  last  is  a  function  which  he  takes  as  arbitrary. 

We' shall  call  this  equation  the  auxiliary  equation.     The 

primitive  equation  lacked  just  this  last  term.    He  constructs 

this  arbitrary  function  by  linearly  composing  n  functions  by 

means  of  certain  constant  undetermined  coefficients.      Ihis 

done   he  develops  the  unknown  function,  supposed  zero  on 

the  boundary,  in  a  series  of  powers  of  the  parameter^  This 

result  is  reached  by  the  use  of  Green's  functions.     He  gets 

in  this  way  an  analytic  function  of  the  parameter  for  which 

n9i63 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

the  development  is  valid  within  a  certain  circle,  and  which 
can  be  also  represented  as  the  ratio  of  two  functions  of  which 
the  denominator  is  independent  of  the  variables  of  Integra- 
tion.  By  means  of  processes  of  extreme  subtlety  he  shows 
that  these  undetermined  coefficients  of  which  we  have  just 
spoken  can  be  chosen  so  that  the  two  functions  shall  be  entire 
functions  of  the  parameter.  Hence  if  in  the  auxiliary  equa- 
tion we  replace  the  unknown  function  by  the  ratio  of  the  two 
functions,  giving  them  this  entire  form,  we  see  that  for  all 
the  values  of  the  parameter  which  make  the  denominator 
vanish  the  auxiliary  equation  reduces  to  the  primitive  equa- 
tion, and  thus  it  comes  about  that  all  the  roots  of  the  entire 
function  which  appears  as  the  denominator  give  the  values 
which  we  were  looking  for. 

Nothing  can  be  simpler  than  this  process  which  I  have 
been  able  to  summarize  In  so  few  words,  but  It  contains  a 
group  of  thoughts  of  a  marvelous  subtlety  and  frultfulness. 
What  I  have  given  is  only  the  first  part  of  Polncare's 
memoir.  The  study  of  the  roots  of  the  functions  which 
resolved  the  primitive  equation,  their  properties,  the  devel- 
opments that  they  followed,  the  definite  applications  to  the 
problems  of  acoustics  and  of  the  theory  of  heat,  give  a  num- 
ber of  very  Important  results.  They  have  been  applied  to 
many  similar  questions.  At  present  this  classic  memoir 
remains  as  one  of  the  finest  monuments  constructed  by  Poin- 
care; but  It  Is  with  the  methods  of  Integral  equations  that  we 
now  study  those  problems.  Leaving  these  questions  here, 
however,  let  us  pass  on  to  other  problems  and  investigations. 
Some  years  ago  it  seemed  for  a  time  as  if  the  atomic  and 
corpuscular  theories  were  losing  ground.  People  thought 
that  everything  could  be  explained  by  means  of  continuous 
substances.  In  mathematical  physics  partial  differential 
equations  were  obtained  by  abandoning  entirely  the  molecu- 
lar hypothesis.   In  chemistry  also  It  was  heard  that  the  atoms 

1:9173 


h 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

were  becoming  useless.  But  a  sudden  breath  dispersed  the 
light  clouds  which  seemed  to  obscure  the  corpuscular  theo- 
ries. They  are  now  supreme,  and  serve  to  illuminate  the 
various  regions  of  natural  philosophy. 

Necessarily  the  old  atomic  theories  continued  to  advance. 
Electricity  was  first  recognized  as  being  of  corpuscular  na- 
ture, and  little  by  little  in  every  subject  new  sorts  of  atoms 
appeared.  People  discovered  facts  that  accorded  with  the 
new  theories.  These  theories  became  even  the  richest  and 
most  fruitful  source  of  new  discoveries,  and  it  is  for  that 
reason  that  their  reputation  has  increased  from  day  to  day. 
It  has  become  now  so  secure  that  when  contradictions  are 
unavoidably  presented  we  do  not  think  of  giving  up  these 
new  ideas,  but,  rather,  have  not  hesitated  to  abandon  ancient 
principles  whose  validity  was  not  doubted  enough  even  to 
discuss.  Little  by  little  the  classic  theories  which  seemed  set 
upon  eternal  foundations  have  been  upset.  Even  mechanics, 
which,  after  Galileo  and  Newton,  came  to  be  regarded  as  the 
most  secure  of  all  sciences,  has  been  overturned.  A  new 
mechanics  has  been  formed,  that  of  relativity.  But  that 
perhaps  is  already  to-day  an  old  mechanics.  Will  there  not 
come  from  it  indeed  again  an  entirely  new  one,  by  virtue  of 
the  concept  of  atoms  of  energy? 

Polncare  was  associated  with  the  transformation  of  the 
old  physics  and  the  birth  of  the  new.  His  criticism  and 
analysis  have  penetrated  modern  conceptions  from  all  sides. 
He  was  devoted  to  such  questions  up  to  the  end  of  his  life, 
and  several  of  his  articles  and  latest  lectures  were  given 
to  their  exposition.  And  so  Polncare  was  not  only  a  master 
in  the  first  kind  of  mathematical  physics,  but  also  in  the 

second. 

The  electrodynamics  of  bodies  at  rest  did  not  present 
great  dIflScultles  after  the  discoveries  of  Maxwell  and  the 
progress  due  to  Hertz.     But  that  of  bodies  In  motion  gave 

1:918] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

rise  to  much  discussion.  Hertz  had  suggested  a  special 
hypothesis  In  order  to  pass  from  the  case  of  rest  to  that  of 
motion,  but  experiment  proved  it  to  be  false,  and  it  is 
Lorentz's  theory  which  now  explains  best  the  latter  subject. 
The  celebrated  discovery  of  Zeeman  was  a  great  triumph 
for  the  conceptions  and  hypotheses  of  Lorentz,  because  these 
conceptions  and  hypotheses  predicted  the  doubling  of  th^ 
lines  of  the  spectrum  in  a  magnetic  field;  and  this  was  the  re- 
sult verified  by  Zeeman's  experiment. 

Lorentz's  theory  was  the  source  of  a  new  order  of  ideas, 
Including  that  which  I  have  called  the  new  mechanics.  His 
theory  was  put  In  comparison  with  the  principles  of  me- 
chanics and  physics.  No  contradiction  appears  with  the 
principles  of  the  conservation  of  energy  or  with  those  of 
electricity  and  magnetism.  But  at  the  first  step  a  question  Is 
suggested  to  us,  namely:  Is  it  possible  to  determine  explicitly 
the  "absolute"  motion  of  bodies,  or,  rather,  their  motion 
relative  to  the  asther,  by  means  of  optical  or  electromagnetic 
phenomena? 

To  make  the  question  still  more  precise:  Do  optical  or 
electromagnetic  phenomena  serve  to  determine  the  absolute 
motion  of  the  earth? 

If  we  take  account  only  of  the  first  power  of  the  aberra- 
tion, the  motion  of  the  earth  has  no  influence  on  any  of  these 
phenomena.  This  negative  result  has  been  shown  by  experi- 
ment, and  Is  perfectly  explained  by  Lorentz's  theory. 

But  a  celebrated  experiment  was  performed  by  Michelson 
and  Morley  which  kept  account  of  the  terms  depending  on 
the  square  of  the  aberration,  and  even  this  experiment,  as  Is 
well  known,  gave  a  negative  result. 

In  a  famous  paper  of  1904  Lorentz  showed  that  this 
result  could  be  explained  by  introducing  the  hypothesis  that 
all  bodies  are  subjected  to  a  contraction  in  the  direction  of 
the  motion  of  the  earth. 

1:9193 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

This  paper  was  the  point  of  departure  for  the  later  inves- 
tigations. The  results  of  Polncare,  Einstein  and  Minkowski 
followed  closely  that  of  Lorentz.  In  1905  Polncare  pub- 
lished a  summary  of  his  Ideas  In  the  ''Comptes  Rendus"  of 
the  French  Academy  of  Sciences.  An  extended  memoir  on 
the  same  subject  appeared  shortly  afterwards  in  the  '^Rendi- 

contl"  of  Palermo. 

The  basic  Idea  In  this  set  of  Investigations  Is  founded  upon 
the  principle  that  no  experiment  could  show  any  absolute 
motion  of  the  earth.  That  is  what  Is  called  the  Postulate  of 
Relativity.  Lorentz  showed  that  certain  transformations, 
called  now  by  his  name,  do  not  change  the  equations  that 
hold  for  an  electromagnetic  medium;  two  systems,  one  at 
rest,  the  other  In  motion,  are  thus  the  exact  Images  each  of 
the  other,  in  such  a  way  that  we  can  give  every  system  a  mo- 
tion of  translation  without  affecting  any  of  the  apparent  phe- 
nomena. 

In  Lorentz's  theory  a  spherical  electron  In  motion  takes 
the  form  of  an  oblate  spheroid,  two  of  its  axes  remaining 
constant.  Polncare  found  the  particular  force  necessary  to 
explain  both  the  contraction  of  the  electron  and  the  con- 
stancy of  the  two  axes.  This  is  a  constant  exterior  pressure 
acting  upon  the  deformable  and  compressible  electron.  ^  The 
work  performed  by  this  force  is  proportional  to  the  variation 
in  volume  of  the  electron.  In  this  way,  if  inertia  and  all  of 
the  forces  are  of  electromagnetic  origin,  the  postulate  of 
relativity  can  be  rigorously  established. 

But  according  to  Lorentz  all  forces,  no  matter  what  may 
be  their  origin,  are  affected  by  his  transformation  In  the  same 
way  as  the  electromagnetic  forces.  What  modifications  will 
it  be  necessary  to  introduce  into  the  laws  of  gravitation,  In 
virtue  of  this  hypothesis? 

Polncare  finds  that  gravitation  must  be  propagated  with 
the  velocity  of  light.    We  might  think,  knowing  the  famous 

1:920:1 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

theory  of  Laplace,  that  that  was  in  contradiction  with  astro- 
nomical observations.  But  that  is  not  so;  there  is  a  compen- 
sating term  which  removes  every  contradiction.  Polncare 
was  thus  led  to  propose  and  resolve  the  following  question: 
To  find  a  law  which  satisfies  the  condition  of  Lorentz  and 
reduces  to  Newton's  law  when  the  squares  of  the  velocities 
of  the  stars  are  negligible  in  comparison  with  the  velocity 
of  light. 

Those  are  the  fundamental  problems  and  Ideas  of  Poln- 
care, which  have  played  such  an  important  part  in  all  later 
researches.  The  methods  employed  involve  the  principle  of 
least  action  and  the  theory  of  groups  of  transformations, 
because  Polncare  finds  that  the  transformations  of  Lorentz 
form  a  group  in  Lie's  sense.  It  is  enough  to  have  recalled 
these  general  Ideas.  At  the  present  time  they  are  much 
spoken  of.  They  form  the  subject  of  such  a  great  number 
of  scientific  papers  and  popular  conferences  that  ever^^body 
knows  them  and  appreciates  their  importance. 

We  shall  close  by  speaking  of  Polncare's  contribution  to 
mechanics.  It  is  the  hardest  part  of  his  work  to  analyze. 
He  concerned  himself  with  practically  every  branch  of 
analytical  mechanics:  problems  of  stability,  celestial  me- 
chanics, hydrodynamics  and  potential.  The  problem  of  the 
three  bodies  forms  the  subject  of  a  great  number  of  his 
investigations,  now  become  famous,  since  they  aided  in  revo- 
lutionizing classical  methods.  As  is  well  known,  it  was  Poin- 
care's  memoir  on  "The  Three-body  Problem  and  the  Equa- 
tions of  Dynamics''  which  was  crowned  with  the  prize 
founded  in  1889  by  King  Oscar  of  Sweden.  Important 
works  of  Poincare's  followed  this  memoir:  the  three  vol- 
umes entitled  "Les  methodes  nouvelles  de  la  mecaniques 
celeste,"  and  the  "Lecons"  given  at  the  Sorbonne.  More- 
over, Poincare's  last  expository  work  was  devoted  to  the 
discussion  of  the  various  cosmogonic  hvpotheses. 

[921:] 


l\ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

The  fundamental  ideas  which  guided  Poincare  in  the  prob- 
lems of  mathematical  astronomy  were  the  consideration  of 
periodic  solutions,  the  study  of  the  series  which  give  the  solu- 
tion of  the  problem  of  three  bodies,  and  the  introduction  of 
integral  invariants.  We  have  a  periodic  solution  of  the  prob- 
lem of  three  bodies  if  at  the  end  of  a  certain  time  the  three 
bodies  are  found  again  in  the  same  relative  positions,  the 
whole  system  being  merely  turned  through  a  certain  angle. 
By  considering  the  eccentricities  and  inclinations  of  the  or- 
bits, Poincare  was  led  to  distinguish  three  kinds  of  periodic 
solutions  for  values  of  the  time  infinitely  great  either  nega- 
tively or  positively. 

These  studies  on  periodic  solutions  have  very  great  theo- 
retical Interest,  but  also  they  have  Important  practical  appli- 
cations. At  a  first  glance,  we  can  understand  that  the  proba- 
bility is  Infinitely  small  that  in  any  practical  problem  the 
initial  conditions  of  the  motion  will  be  such  as  to  correspond 
to  a  periodic  solution.  Nevertheless,  we  can  take  one  of 
these  periodic  solutions  as  a  starting-point  for  a  series  of 
successive  approximations,  and  thus  study  those  solutions 
which  differ  little  from  it. 

It  is  well  known  that  a  beautiful  application  of  this  method 
was  made  by  Hill  to  the  theory  of  the  moon's  motion. 

The  question  of  divergence  of  the  series  which  appear  In 
celestial  mechanics  has  great  importance.  It  is  one  of  the 
most  interesting  questions  that  have  arisen  in  mathematics. 
Can  we  use  divergent  series,  and  can  we  by  means  of  series 
of  this  kind  arrive  at  approximate  solutions  of  practical 
problems?  The  example  of  Stirling's  series  allows  us  to 
answer  in  the  affirmative.  We  find  series  of  the  same  kind 
in  celestial  mechanics.  They  also  furnish  approximate  values 
sufficient  for  the  demands  of  practice.  That  is  what  Poin- 
care noticed  and  proved. 

The  celebrated  theorem  about  the  non-existence  of  uni- 

[922] 


14 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

form  integrals— that  Is  to  say,  that  the  three-body  problem 
has  no  uniform  Integrals  besides  those  already  known— Is 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  results  of  Poincare's  theory. 

In  these  researches  about  which  we  have  been  speaking  the 
so-called  Integral  Invariants  play  an  essential  part.  These 
are  approximations  which  are  calculated  by  quadratures 
applied  to  the  variables  of  differential  equations,  and  remain 
constant.  These  invariants  are  connected  intimately  with 
the  fundamental  question  of  stability. 

It  is  impossible  to  summarize  all  these  theories  and  yet 
present  them  clearly.  On  the  other  hand,  to  develop  them 
more  minutely  would  carry  us  too  far. 

Following  the  same  path  that  we  have  taken  for  analysis 
and  mathematical  physics,  let  us  then  consider  also  in  me- 
chanics a  particular  one  of  Poincare's  investigations,  suf- 
ficient to  show  us  the  range  and  powerful  originality  of  his 
genius.  On  the  one  hand,  this  investigation  is  related  to 
hydrodynamics;  and  on  the  other,  to  celebrated  questions  of 
celestial  mechanics  and,  as  Sir  George  Darwin  has  shown, 
to  the  most  interesting  and  modern  cosmogonic  theories. 

It  is  the  question  of  the  equilibrium  of  a  rotating  fluid 
mass,  and  was  one  of  the  first  problems  that  presented 
themselves  with  the  establishment  of  the  theory  of  gravita- 
tion. MacLaurIn  gave  a  solution  of  it  by  means  of  ellipsoids 
of  revolution,  and  it  is  perhaps  the  finest  result  which  that 
great  geometer  gave  to  science.  The  solution  by  Jacobi  by 
means  of  ellipsoids  with  three  unequal  axes  was  a  happ^ 
stroke  of  genius  of  that  Illustrious  mathematician.  He  was 
In  fact  the  first  to  doubt  what  everybody  considered  as  evi- 
dent a  priori— th^t  Is,  that  every  possible  form  of  equi- 
librium of  a  rotating  homogeneous  fluid  mass  is  symmetric  in 
regard  to  the  axis  of  rotation. 

But  solutions  due  to  MacLaurIn  and  Jacobi  were  only 
particular  solutions  of  the  general  problem.     There  are  an 

[923] 


^. 


1[ 


^  I 


Jl 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

infinite  number  besides.  We  must  also  notice  that  these 
particular  solutions  were  not  obtained  directly.  It  was 
merely  verified  that  under  certain  conditions  certain  ellip- 
soids satisfied  the  laws  of  equilibrium. 

Before  considering  Poincare's  investigation  we  must  recall 
the  fact  that  Thomson  and  Tait  in  their  treatise  on  natural 
philosophy  had  seen  that  there  were  ring  forms  of  equi- 
librium as  well  as  ellipsoids.  They  had  also  studied  the 
question  of  stability,  either  by  imposing  certain  conditions 
on  the  fluid  mass— for  instance,  that  of  being  a  solid  of 
revolution  or  of  being  ellipsoidal— or  by  omitting  such  con- 
ditions. 

The  fruitful  idea  of  Poincare  was  that  of  equilibrium  of 
bifurcation.     Let  us  consider  a  system  whose  state  depends 
on  a  certain  parameter.    If,  for  instance,  we  have  a  rotating 
fluid  mass,  we  can  let  that  parameter  be  the  angular  velocity 
of  rotation.     Let  us  suppose  that  several  different  forms  of 
equilibrium  correspond  to  the  same  value  of  the  parameter. 
Let  us  change  that  value.    The  configurations— or,  in  other 
words,  the  forms  of  equilibrium— will  change.     It  may  hap- 
pen, that,  on  approaching  a  certain  limit,  two  forms  of  equi- 
librium become  the  same.  If  we  go  by  this  limit  we  may  have 
one  of  two  cases.    The  figures  of  equilibrium  may  disappear ; 
we  express  this  in  algebraic  language  by  saying  that  they  be- 
come Imaginary.     That  is  the  first  case.     We  say  then  that 
that  form  which  the  two  figures  approach  is  a  limiting  form. 
But  it  may  happen  that  if  we  pass  the  limiting  value  the  two 
distinct  figures  reappear.    That  is  the  second  case.     In  this 
case  the  figure  where  the  two  forms  of  equilibrium  coincide 
is  called  a  form  of  bifurcation. 

Let  us  suppose  ourselves  to  be  able  to  represent  each 
figure  of  equilibrium  by  a  point  in  the  plane  of  which  the 
coordinates  are  the  value  of  the  parameter  and  some  varl- 

1:9243 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

able  which  distinguishes  the  figure.  By  changing  the  param- 
eter we  shall  have  a  curve.  In  our  second  case  this  curve  is 
formed  of  two  branches  which  cross,  corresponding  at  their 
intersection  to  the  form  of  bifurcation.  Now  Poincare 
established  a  theorem  of  the  greatest  importance  by  con- 
sidering the  stability  of  the  figures  corresponding  to  the  dif- 
ferent points  of  the  two  branches.  Let  O  be  the  value  of 
the  parameter  which  refers  to  the  point  of  intersection.  If 
for  negative  values  of  the  parameter  there  is  stability  on  the 
first  branch  and  instability  on  the  second,  it  will  be  the  oppo- 
site for  positive  values  of  the  parameter— that  is,  there  will 
be  instability  on  the  first  branch  and  stability  on  the  other. 
In  other  words,  there  is  an  exchange  of  stabilities  between 
the  two  branches  at  the  place  where  they  cross.  This  propo- 
sition was  called  by  Poincare  the  theorem  of  the  exchange 
of  stabilities. 

Let  us  now  ap- 
ply these  results 
to  the  question  of 
the  rotation  of 
fluid  masses.  Let 
us  suppose  that 
we  know  the  solu- 
tions of  Mac- 
Laurln  and  Ja- 
cobl.  The  axis  of 
rotation  is  always 
the  small  axis  of 
the  ellipsoid,  and 
so  we  know  that 
its   ratios  to  the 

other  axes  are  less  than  unity.     These  ratios  are  equal  for 
MacLaurin's  ellipsoid  and  different  for  that  of  Jacobl.     If 

[925] 


riGUItE  I 


1 


I      >      I 

H 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

we  take  these  ratios  as  coordinates  of  a  point  in  the  plane, 
each  ellipsoid  will  be  characterized  by  a  point,  and  these 
points  will  form  a  curve  (see  Fig.  i).  The  bisector  of  the 
angle  between  the  axes  will  be  the  line  that  represents  the 
ellipsoids  of  MacLaurin.  The  curve  BCD  will  represent  the 
ellipsoids  of  Jacobi. 

But  Poincare  also  found  new  figures  of  equilibrium  that 
can  be  obtained  by  deforming  the  elHpsoids.  The  exact 
form  can  be  calculated  by  means  of  Lame's  functions.  The 
simplest  have  the  form  of  a  pear.  It  Is  shown  that  there 
exist  an  infinite  number  of  ellipsoids  of  MacLaurin  that 
correspond  to  the  points  N,  Ni,  N2  .  •  •  •  of  the  hne  AO 
such  that  one  of  the  infinitely  near  figures  of  Poincare  is  also 
a  form  of  equilibrium.  In  the  same  way  there  are  an  infinite 
number  of  points  M,  Ml,  M2  ....  M\  M^i,  M^s  .  •  •  • 
of  the  curve  BCD  such  that  the  neighboring  Poincare  figure 
is  also  a  form  of  equilibrium. 

Let  us  consider  now  the  stability.  The  MacLaurin  ellip- 
soids are  stable  in  the  part  AC,  and  unstable  in  the  part  CO. 
The  ellipsoids  of  Jacobi  are  stable  from  C  up  to  the  first 
point  M,  where  one  encounters  a  figure  of  Poincare,  and 
unstable  in  the  part  MB. 

Hereupon  we  come  to  an  application  of  the  theory.     I 

quote  from  Poincare  himself: 

*'Let  us  consider  a  homogeneous  fluid  initially  rotating 
and  cooling  slowly.  If  the  cooling  is  slow  enough  the  inter- 
nal friction  determines  that  the  whole  mass  revolve  with  the 
same  angular  velocity  at  all  points.  The  moment  of  rotation 
will  moreover  remain  constant. 

**At  the  beginning,  since  the  density  is  very  small,  the  form 
of  the  mass  Is  an  ellipsoid  which  will  hold  together  despite 
the  revolution.  The  representative  point  will  describe  the 
portion  AC  of  the  line  which  corresponds  to  the  MacLaurin 

[926] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

ellipsoids  up  as  far  as  C,  where  these  ellipsoids  become 
unstable.  The  representative  point,  which  can  no  longer 
take  the  path  CO,  will  then  follow,  for  instance,  the  direc- 
tion CM;  the  ellipsoid  will  have  its  three  axes  unequal,  and 
this  is  true  as  far  as  M,  where  the  Jacobi  ellipsoids  become 
unstable.  Beyond  this  stage, 
since  the  mass  can  no  longer 
keep  the  ellipsoidal  form, 
that  having  become  unstable, 
It  will  take  on  the  only  form 
possible,  which  is  that  of  the 
neighboring  surface  to  it. 
This  surface  is  a  piriform 
figure  (see  Fig.  2)  which  has 
a  narrow  place  in  the  region 
marked  3 ;  the  regions  2  and 
4  tend  to  increase  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  regions  i  and 
3,  as  if  the  mass  were  trying 
to  divide  in  two  unequal 
parts.'* 

The  results  that  we  have  just  presented  are  quite  elegant 
and  of  great  importance.  They  revealed  much  to  Sir 
George  Darwin.  He  thought  that  the  process  which  we 
have  just  described  might  play  a  part  in  the  evolution  of 
celestial  systems,  and  this  theory  seems  to  be  confirmed  ac- 
cording  to  the  forms  observable  in  many  nebulae.  Some 
satellites  may  have  been  formed  in  this  way  at  the  expense  of 
their  planets.  In  particular  that  may  have  happened  in  the 
case  of  the  earth  and  the  moon,  the  masses  of  which  are 
comparable  in  magnitude. 

Under  these  majestic  aspects,  where  the  most  subtle  and 
ingenious  theories  of  mechanics  are  at  one  with  the  most 

1:9273 


riGUKc:  2 


\ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

daring  cosmogonic  hypotheses,  we  finish  our  analysis  of  the 
investigations  due  to  Poincare. 

I  have  given  but  an  incomplete  idea  of  the  immense  work 
which  he  did,  of  the  problems  which  he  treated  and  which 
it  will  be  necessary  to  study  exhaustively,  of  the  regions 
which  he  has  opened  where  several  generations  of  mathe- 
maticians will  be  able  to  work. 

His  discoveries  will  but  have  the  result  of  stimulating  new 
investigations.  That  is  the  fate  of  the  works  of  great 
geniuses.  They  give  the  key  for  solving  many  problems  and 
satisfy  scientific  curiosity  by  unveiling  the  secrets  of  nature, 
but  at  bottom  they  merely  increase  that  curiosity  by  opening 
new  horizons  and  making  still  more  distant  the  goal  of 
scientific  aspiration. 

VlTO  VOLTERRA. 


1:9283 


\ 


^ 


/^^u^^^ 


;6 


^IA/t/U€^^^ 


/^ 


(4^. 


e. 


^l/l/Ul^€^^^ 


THE  ELECTRON  AS  AN  ELEMENT 

COMPOUNDS  OF  ELECTRONS 

THE  DISRUPTION  OF  THE  SO-CALLED 

ELEMENTS^ 


First  Lecture 
THE  ELECTRON  AS  AN  ELEMENT 


THE  independent  existence  of  the  electron  is  now  con- 
clusively demonstrated;  in  my  opinion,  it  is,  next  to 
the  first  and  second  laws  of  energy,  the  most  far-reaching 
discovery  which  has  yet  been  made,  both  in  its  application  to 
the  elucidating  of  our  former  views  concerning  matter  and 
its  nature,  and  to  our  control  over  what  are  popularly 
termed  "the  forces  of  nature." 

Although  progress  in  human  thought  has  usually  been 
achieved  from  the  practical  standpoint,  still,  after  a  sufficient 
number  of  observations  have  been  made,  a  consistent  theory, 
which  permits  of  the  knitting  together  of  such  isolated  parts 
into  a  complete  whole,  suggests  the  trend  of  further  re- 
search, and  renders  easy  what  previously  was  justly  regarded 
as  difficult.  It  is  thus  with  the  idea  of  the  electron  as  an 
entity.  Once  it  has  been  realized  that  the  part  played  by  the 
electron  is  all-pervading;  that  it  enters  as  an  element  into  the 
constitution  of  chemical  compounds ;  that  when  they  undergo 

^^  Three  lectures  delivered  at  the  inauguration  of  the  Rice  Institute,  by 
Sir  William  Ramsay,  K.C.B.,  F.R.S.,  Professor  of  Chemistry  in  the  University 
of  London. 

1:9293 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

change,  that  change  is  brought  about  by  a  shifting  of  electrons 
from  one  form  of  combination  to  another;  when  we  reahze 
that  a  current  of  electricity  flowing  along  a  wire  Is  merely  the 
passage  of  almost  infinitely  numerous  electrons  from  place 
to  place,  and  the  formation  and  decomposition  of  temporary 
compounds;  when  we  can  clearly  conceive  that  the  starting 
and  stopping  of  such  a  current  of  electrons  cause  ethereal 
waves,  themselves  capable  of  starting  or  stopping  similar 
currents  of  electrons  In  wires  parallel  to  the  first;  when  we 
realize  that  by  the  expenditure  of  energy  such  streams  of 
electrons  can  be  set  In  motion  and  can  be  stopped,— then  we 
have  acquired  knowledge  which  will  enable  us  to  contrive 
machines  better  than  those  which  we  already  possess,  where- 
by the  direction  of  motion  of  electrons  can  be  controlled. 

The  fact  that  electrons  cannot  be  seen  need  now  prove  no 
stumbling-block.     For  men  were  for  long  unable  to  realize 
that  invisible  gases  could  be  put  to  use.  The  wind  was  by  our 
forerunners  regarded  as  semi-spiritual;  a  ghost  and  a  gust 
were  akin ;  and  I  find  it  difficult  to  convince  my  non-scientific, 
and  even  some  of  my  scientific,  friends  that  It  Is  much  easier 
to  work  with  and  to  manipulate  gases  than  liquids  or  solids. 
And  now  gases,  in  the  form  of  compressed  air,  compressed 
steam,  or  compressed  products  of  explosion,  are  our  chief 
agents  for  conveying  energy  from  place  to  place;  they  are, 
electrons  excepted,  the  means  by  which  almost  all  our  energy 
is  transmitted.     They  have  the  advantage  of  being  easily 
moved;  of  being  elastic;  and  of  being  conveyed  rapidly  from 
place  to  place  without  loss.    Indeed,  If  it  were  necessary  to 
characterize  the  past  century  by  a  single  expression,  the  ''age 
of  compressed  gases"  might  be  aptly  chosen. 

The  story  of  the  measurement  of  the  mass  of  an  electron 
has  often  been  told.  The  "kathode  rays"  were  discovered 
by  Lenard  to  be  able  to  pass  through  a  thin  sheet  of  alu- 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

minium;  and  after  their  passage  they  were  found  to  be  able 
to  penetrate  the  atmosphere  for  some  distance,  although 
they  were  somewhat  rapidly  dispersed;  in  fact,  the  disper- 
sion, with  the  loss  of  their  activity,  has  been  likened  to  the 
passage  of  light  through  water  to  which  a  few  drops  of  milk 
have  been  added.  Crookes's  previous  researches  had  proved 
that  kathode  rays  can  be  concentrated  to  a  point  from  an 
aluminium  kathode,  shaped  like  a  parabolic  mirror;  that 
they  produce  great  rise  of  temperature  at  their  focus;  that 
their  impact  can  Impart  rotatory  motion  to  a  paddle-wheel  on 
the  blades  of  which  they  impinge;  and  that  they  have  the 
property  of  causing  phosphorescence  in  various  objects- 
many  minerals,  for  example,  glowing  with  marvelously  bril- 
liant colors.  They  are  unable  to  penetrate  thick  objects; 
hence  a  metal  cross  or  other  object  can  be  made  to  cast  a 
kathode  shadow  when  placed  in  their  path,  and  the  shadow 
can  be  well  seen  on  the  side  of  the  glass  vessel  In  which  the 
rays  are  generated;  the  glass  phosphoresces  with  a  beautiful 
green  or  blue  color,  except  where  It  receives  the  shadow  of 
the  metal  cross. 

Crookes  also  showed  that  two  such  streams  of  electrodes, 
each  arising  from  its  own  kathode,  repel  each  other;  for  if 
the  kathodes  were  parallel,  the  streams  were  not  parallel, 
but  divergent.  On  the  other  hand,  streams  of  kathode  par- 
ticles, passing  in  opposite  directions,  attract  each  other. 

Goldschmidt,  many  years  ago,  had  noticed  that  the 
streams  of  kathode  rays  can  be  deflected  by  a  magnet ;  and  it 
was  this  property  of  the  rays,  taken  with  that  of  their  being 
attracted  by  a  positive  and  repelled  by  a  negative  electric 
field,  which  led  to  the  possibility  of  measuring  the  ratio  of 
the  charge  which  they  carry  to  the  mass  of  the  electron. 

Knowing  this  ratio,  it  follows  that  if  the  magnitude  of  the 
charge  be  known,  the  mass  of  the  electron  will  then  be  deter- 

1:9313 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 
mined.     Now,  accurate  measurements  show  that  this  ratio 
involves  one  of  two  alternative  suppositions:  either  that  the 
negative  charge  is  1830  times  the  positive  charge  earned  by 
one  atom  of  hydrogen  in  the  ionic  state,  or  that  the  mass  of 
the  particle  is  only  Visso  of  that  of  an  atom  of  hydrogen.    It 
appeared  improbable  that  the  first  supposition  should  be  cor- 
rect  •  and  the  matter  has  been  decided  without  a  shadow  of 
doubt  from  experiments  made  by  Mr.  C.  T.  R.  Wilson.    A 
property  of  ions  in  a  gas  is  to  cause  the  condensation  of 
supersaturated  water-vapor  to  droplets.     The  number  of 
such  droplets  can  be  counted;  the  velocity  of  their  fall  can  be 
measured.    This  affords  a  means  of  determining  the  diam- 
eter of  each  droplet,  and  from  that  the  volume  of  a  droplet 
can  be  deduced ;  and  as  the  total  quantity  of  electricity  carried 
down  by  the  precipitated  liquid  can  be  easily  measured,  the 
charge  on  each  particle  can  be  estimated.     It  is  that  which 
may  be  attached  to  one,  two  or  more  electrons;  for  the  ion  of 
a  gas  may  be  attached  to  electrons,  and  each  ion  corresponds 
to  one  water  droplet.    Wilson's  experiments,  as  well  as  the 
beautiful  experiments  of  MiUiken,  agree  in  the  conclusion 
that  the  electric  value  of  a  unit  charge,  or  electron,  is  4.78  x 
10-"  electrostatic  units;  and  it  follows  from  this  that  the 
mass  of  an  electron  is  Visso  of  that  of  an  atom  of  hydrogen. 
It  is  possible  now  to  go  further  and  to  determine  the  ac- 
tual mass  of  an  electron.     Experiments  by  M.  Perrin  on 
what  may  be  termed  visible  molecules-namely,  particles  of 
gamboge   in   an   aqueous   emulsion-have   enabled   him  to 
deduce  with  great  accuracy  the  mass  of  an  atom  of  hy- 
drogen; it  is  1.63  X  10-==*  gram.    Dividing  by  1830,  the  mass 
of  an  electron  is  found;  it  is  0.8x10-2^  gram. 

Let  me  interpose  here  the  remark  that  the  method  of 
determining  the  "atomic  weight"  of  an  electron  does  not 
differ  in  principle  from  the  usual  method  of  determining 

1:932:1 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

atomic  weights.  The  usual  method  is  to  ascertain  the  weight 
of  the  element  in  question  which  will  combine  with  a  known 
weight  of  some  standard  element  the  ratio  of  whose  atomic 
weight  to  that  of  oxygen  is  known.  This  ratio  is  generally 
determined  by  the  balance,  and  the  result  gives  the  equiv- 
alent of  the  element  of  which  the  atomic  weight  is  required. 
With  the  electron  the  process  is  similar,  except  in  the  method 
of  weighing;  the  "weight"  is  determined  electrically.  In- 
deed, the  use  of  the  word  "weight"  is  not  strictly  permissible, 
for  the  attraction  of  the  earth  does  not  come  into  play;  elec- 
tric forces  replace  it.  But  there  is  now  no  doubt  that  the 
atomic  mass  of  an  electron  is  ^gso  of  that  of  hydrogen.  It 
is  also  certain  that  what  is  termed  an  electric  current  consists 
of  a  stream  of  such  electric  particles  in  motion;  and  that  a 
negative  electric  charge  consists  in  the  surface  of  the  nega- 
tively electrified  object  being  covered  with  a  film  of  such 
particles. 

W^e  see,  therefore,  that  we  have  now  to  do  with  an  ele- 
ment of  known  atomic  weight  which  has  been  isolated  from 
its  compounds  and  is  thus  accessible  in  the  free  state.  It  may 
be  pointed  out  here  that  this  is  not  the  first  time  that  the 
existence  of  elements  has  been  inferred  before  their  isolation 
in  a  state  of  freedom.  To  quote  a  familiar  instance,  fluorine 
was  defined  as  an  element  by  Davy  eighty  years  before 
Moissan  prepared  it  by  electrolysis  of  hydrogen  fluoride, 
rendered  a  conductor  by  the  presence  of  dissolved  salts.  The 
fact  of  the  general  resemblance  of  its  compounds  to  those  of 
the  other  halogens  made  the  inference  legitimate.  But  the 
electron  possesses  properties  so  remarkable  that  there  is  lit- 
tle wonder  that  its  elementary  nature  was  overlooked. 

The  first  suggestion,  which,  nevertheless,  fell  short  of  the 
truth,  was  made  in  1887  by  Helmholtz  in  his  Faraday  lec- 
ture, when,  having  indicated  that  according  to  Faraday's  law 

1:9333 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

each  atom  of  an  element,  liberated  on  electrolysis,  is  asso- 
ciated with  one  or  more  units  of  positive  or  negative  electric 
charge,  he  pointed  out  that  the  legitimate  conclusion  to  be 
drawn  was  that  each  liberated  elementary  atom  is  associated 
with  one  or  more  positive  or  negative  units  of  electricity,  to 
which  the  term  "electric  atom"  might  legitimately  be  at- 
tached.    It  has  only  been  slowly  realized  that  a  negative 
charge  is  due  to  the  presence  of  atoms  of  electricity    or 
negative  electrons,  and  that  a  positive  charge  is  due  to  their 
absence.     We  are  reminded  by  this  of  the  long-exploded 
doctrine  of  phlogiston,  the  demolition  of  which  by  Lavoisier 
revolutionized  the  science  of  chemistry  and  gave  it  a  fresh 
start      In  it  the  absence  of  oxygen  corresponded  with  the 
presence  of  phlogiston,  a  wholly  imaginary  conception;  just 
as  a  positive  charge  was  tacitly  assumed  to  be  the  addition 
of  positive  electricity  to  matter,  while  a  negative  charge  cor- 
responded to  the  association  of  matter  with  negative  elec- 
tricity     It  is  as  if  the  upholders  of  the  phlogistic  theory, 
having  been  convinced  against  their  will  that  combustion 
implied  combination  with  oxygen,   had  at  the  same  time 
maintained  that  during  such  combination  phlogiston  is  lost. 
Indeed,  Scheele's  Ingenuity  made  him  devise  a  somewhat 
similar  hypothesis  when  he  was  confronted  by  the  experi- 
mental fact  that  oxygen  Is  produced  by  heating  "mercur.us 
preclpltatus  per  se"  in  a  retort.     His  explanation  was  that 
the  heat  which  entered  the  retort,  being  composed  of  phlo- 
giston plus  fire-air,  was  decomposed  by  the  calx  of  mercury; 
the  calx,  combined  with  the  phlogiston,  producing  mercury, 
while  the  fire-air,  or  oxygen,  the  other  component  of  "heat, 
escaped  and  could  be  collected.    The  reasoning  is  perfect  as 
long  as  the  use  of  a  balance  Is  excluded;  and,  as  with  the 
electron,  it  was  only  by  careful  weighing  that  the  substan- 
tiality of  oxygen  could  be  demonstrated. 

1:934:] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Similarly,  it  is  now  time  to  reject  the  old  hypothesis  that 
there  are  two  kinds  of  electric  fluid— one  positive,  one  nega- 
tive; the  evidence  is  overwhelmingly  in  favor  of  the  theory 
that  electricity  consists  of  an  assemblage  of  electrons,  or  par- 
ticles of  negative  electricity,  and  that  compounds  of  electrons 
change  their  nature  when  the  electrons  are  removed,  just  as 
mercuric  oxide  acquires  the  properties  of  a  metal  by  removal 
of  oxygen.     Much  confusion  has  arisen  owing  to  the  fact 
that  electric  phenomena  are  produced  by  ethereal  waves. 
Indeed,  the  word  "electricity"  has  a  dual  signification  :  firstly, 
it  applies  to  congeries  of  negative  electrons  attached  to  what 
is  generally  termed  matter,  as  one  element  is  united  to  an- 
other—or, to  use  a  more  general  expression,  is  attached  to 
another,  or  to  a  compound;  and  secondly,  it  is  made  to  signify 
vibrations  in  the  ether,  which  arise  when  a  current  of  moving 
electrons  is  started  or  stopped.    It  is  also  clear  that  a  magnet 
is  associated  with  electrons  in  circular  motion,  which  keep 
the  neighboring  ether  in  a  state  of  strain;  if  the  lines  of 
strain,  or  "lines  of  force,"  be  cut  by  a  moving  wire,  the  elec- 
trons in  that  wire  are  set  in  motion  and  a  current  is  produced. 
It  is  unnecessary  to  state  that  this  fact  that  ethereal  vibra- 
tions can  start  or  stop  electrons  has  proved  of  the  very  great- 
est service  to  mankind;  to  this  is  due  the  invention  of  the 
dynamo,  of  the  motor,  and  of  wireless  telegraphy.    But  it  is 
evident  that  such  ethereal  vibrations,  transmitted  as  waves, 
are  in  no  sense  the  material  electrons,  any  more  than  the 
force  applied  by  a  horse  to  a  rope  is  the  canal-boat  which  it 
sets  in  motion. 

As  for  the  mechanism  by  which  ethereal  waves  effect 
motion  in  electrons,  that  is  beyond  the  scope  of  these  lec- 
tures. Indeed,  of  the  rival  theories  which  profess  to  explain 
it,  not  one  is  satisfactory.  All  that  can  definitely  be  said  is 
that  there  is  an  evident  gyroscopic  action,   for  motion  of 

l93Sl 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

electrons  occurs  not  in  the  direction  of  propagation  of  the 
ethereal  force,  but  at  right  angles  to  It.  We  therefore  delib- 
erately confine  our  attention  to  the  electron  as  a  form  of 
matter  with  a  known  atomic  weight,  viz.,  Visso,  and  capable 
of  forming  compounds  with  what  we  commonly  term  matter. 
And  here  again  we  must  draw  a  line.  The  question  has  been 
raised.  Does  matter  consist  of  congeries  of  electrons  m  rota- 
tion, or  In  vibration,  or  exercising  some  form  of  relative 
motion?  Or  Is  there  a  material  nucleus,  composed  of  some 
entity  different  from  electrons,  with  which  electrons  can 
combine,  and  from  which  they  can  separate?  And  Is  there 
only  one  such  stuff-prlmordlal  matter?  Or  are  there  as 
many  varieties  of  stuff  as  there  are  elements? 

These  speculations  are  of  great  Interest;  some  of  them 
have  exercised  men's  minds  for  centuries.     But  answers  to 
these  questions  are  not  yet  forthcoming;  they  are  the  goals 
to  which  Investigation  Is  tending.     As  regards  the  question 
of  the  composition  of  matter,  whether  It  consists  wholly  of 
electrons  or  not,  that  must  be  left  open.     It  can  and  will  be 
decided  by  experiments  devised  to  test  various  theories.    All 
we  need  say  for  the  present  Is  that  most  forms  of  matter, 
such  as  we  know  them,  contain  electrons  as  parts  of  their 
composition;  we  need  not  yet  concern  ourselves  with  the 
constitution  of  the  residual  matter  after  the  removable  elec- 
trons have  been  removed. 

As  for  the  unity  of  matter,  I  hope  to  be  able  to  show  that 
progress  Is  being  made  in  the  direction  of  an  answer  to  that 
question.  It  may,  however,  be  stated  at  once  that  It  Is  as  yet 
absolutely  uncertain  whether  or  not  matter  will  ultimately  be 
found  to  be  homogeneous-that  Is,  consisting  wholly  of  one 
kind,  associated  with  more  or  with  fewer  electrons. 

Having  arrived,  then,  at  the  notion  that  In  electrons  we 
must  recognize  an  elementary  form  of  matter,  let  us  next 

1:9363 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

consider  the  transference  of  electrons  from  one  form  of 
combination  to  another.  This  can  be  done  most  simply  by 
reasoning  on  any  simple  electrolysis;  and  I  will  choose  that 
of  water,  assuming,  for  simplicity's  sake,  that  the  change  is 
the  theoretical  one,  2H20  =  2H2  +  02.  The  real  change 
which  occurs  depends,  of  course,  on  the  electrolyte  which  has 
been  added  to  the  water,  and  on  the  action  of  its  liberated 
ions  on  the  water;  if  it  be  sulphuric  acid,  for  example,  the 
hydrogen  of  the  acid  will  be  set  free,  and  the  sulphatlon 
group,  SO4,  will  liberate  oxygen  by  Its  action  on  water.  We 
will  neglect  these  actions,  however,  and  will  regard  the  ac- 
tion as  expressed  by  the  simpler  equation. 

Water,  then,  consists  of  molecules  of  some  complexity, 
probably  H^Og,  or  H8O4,  or  mixtures  of  these  with  even 
more  complicated  molecular  groups;  and  along  with  them, 
mingled  with  the  rest,  are  ions  of  hydrogen  and  oxygen. 
The  hydrogen  Ions  are  those  which  lost  electrons  to  the 
oxygen  when  the  water  was  produced.  It  Is  reasonable  to 
suppose  that  during  the  combination  of  the  hydrogen  gas 
with  the  oxygen  gas  (granting  the  water  to  have  been  so 
formed),  the  hydrogen,  which  as  a  gas  consists  of  hydrions 
in  union  with  electrons,  H-H-,  has,  during  Its  "union"  with 
oxygen,  which  as  a  gas  may  be  provisionally  taken  as  0=0, 
given  its  electrons  to  the  oxygen;  so  that  on  ionization  the 
electrons,  having  already  arranged  themselves  In  the  water- 
molecule  In  such  a  manner  that  they  are  no  longer  directly 
associated  with  the  hydrogen,  leave  the  hydrogen  atoms  en- 
tirely without  removable  electrons;  it  is  often  the  custom  to 
call  these  atoms  of  hydrogen  devoid  of  electrons,  "hy- 
drions." Each  electron  which  has  left  an  atom  of  hydrogen 
associates  itself  with  an  atom  of  oxygen  plus  one  of  hy- 
drogen, thus : 

2H--H+0-=0  =  2H-0^+H-fH. 

1:937] 


l\ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

This  equation  requires  consideration.  A  molecule  of  hy- 
drogen is  not  H-  but  =H2.  Now  it  is  an  open  question 
how  the  electrons  are  attached;  but  it  is  to  be  presumed  that 
an  electron  forms  the  bond  between  the  two  atoms.  This  may 
happen  in  two  ways.  First,  the  attachment  may  be  H--; 
or,  second,  H-H-.  The  same  reasoning  applies  to  the 
molecule  of  oxygen;  it  may  be  =0=0  or  0==0.  In  the 
first  case  one  of  the  atoms  is  tetrad,  according  to  the  usual 
code  of  writing;  but  that  need  excite  no  surprise:  oxygen  is 
known  to  possess  tetrad  valency  under  suitable  conditions. 
It  may  be  remarked,  however,  that  similar  reasoning  applied 
to  the  hydrogen  molecule  involves  the  assumption  of  dyad 
hydrogen,  and  that  is  an  unlikely  supposition.  It  need  hardly 
here  be  insisted  on  that  the  actual  practical  valency  of  an 
element  or  group  is  equal  to  the  number  of  electrons  which 
it  carries  during  electrolysis;  that  is  the  corollary  of  Far- 
aday's law.  Now  hydrogen  is  invariably  monovalent;  hence 
the  formula  H — H  is  preferable  to  H-H-.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  may  be  objected  that  two  electrons  will  repel  each 
other,  and  it  might  with  justice  be  asserted  that  for  that  rea- 
son H-H-  is  preferable  to  H — H;  and  similarly  that 
0=0=  is  preferable  to  0==0.  This  statement  will  be 
referred  to  again  in  the  second  lecture.  Perhaps  both  for- 
mulae are  correct;  tautomerism  may  occur  in  reference  to 
atoms  and  electrons  as  well  as  between  atoms  considered 
independently  of  electrons;  the  formula  of  hydrocyanic  acid 
appears  to  be  both  H-C=N  and  H-N^C;  and  many  sim- 
ilar instances  will  suggest  themselves  in  more  definite  cases, 
as,  for  example,  among  the  enols. 

Leaving  such  questions  for  the  present,  let  us  see  the  effect 
of  an  electric  current  on  hydrions  and  hydroxylions.  They 
are  to  be  regarded  as  separate  and  definite  chemical  entities 
intermingled   with    complex   water-molecules— indeed,    sur- 

1:938] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

rounded  by  them;  for  it  is  in  every  way  probable  that  the 
hydrions  are  attracted  by  spare  electrons  of  the  water- 
molecules.  We  have  many  instances  of  a  similar  directive 
action  among  compounds;  the  place  of  substitution  in  the 
benzene  ring  depends  on  the  position  of  groups  already  sub- 
stituted for  nuclear  hydrogen.  We  may  therefore  believe 
that  the  ions  both  of  hydrogen  and  of  hydroxyl  are  pro- 
tected by  a  coating  of  non-ionized  molecules  of  water.  It  is, 
indeed,  probable  that  interchange  of  electrons  takes  place 
between  the  two,  molecules  and  ions,  so  that  it  is  not  always 
the  same  hydroxyl  group  which  retains  its  electron ;  the  Wil- 
liamson-Clausius  hypothesis  of  interchange  may  well  be 
applicable. 

Into  such  a  system  of  molecules  and  ions  two  platinum 
electrodes  are  plunged.  We  need  not  here  consider  the  source 
of  the  current;  suflice  it  to  say  that  at  the  negative  electrode 
the  electrons  are  crowded  on  the  surface,  ready  to  escape  on 
application  of  sufficient  driving  force— f.^.,  of  a  sufficiently 
high  potential;  while  from  the  positive  electrode  the  elec- 
trons are  subject  to  strain,  for  they  are  being  sucked  into  the 
connecting  wire  by  a  corresponding  electromotive  force.  In 
fact,  we  may  consider  the  negative  electrode  as  a  region  of 
electric  pressure — a  kind  of  electric  force-pump;  and  the 
positive  electrode  as  a  partial  electric  vacuum — an  electric 
suction-pump. 

The  hydrions,  having  no  electrons  attached  to  them,  are 
attracted  to  the  negative  electrode,  where  electrons  are  pres- 
ent under  electric  pressure;  they  move  thither  at  a  rate  de- 
pending on  the  mobility  of  the  ion  (and  hydrions  are  the 
most  mobile  of  all  ions)  as  well  as  on  the  viscosity  of  the 
liquid,  which  is  itself  a  function  of  temperature.  Having 
arrived  at  the  kathode,  each  Ion  absorbs  an  electron,  and 
from  a  hydrion  becomes  an  atom  of  hydrogen.    Each  atom 

1:9393 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

of  hydrogen  readjusts  its  newly  found  electrons  so  as  to  com- 
bine  with  its  neighbor  atom  according  to  one  of  the  schemes 

already  set  forth. 

In  an  exactly  similar  manner,  the  kation,  the  hydroxylion, 
reaches  the  anode  where  electrons  are  under  strain;  from 
each  hydroxylion  an  electron  is  removed,  and  the  group  OH 
is  left  without  a  free  valency-/.^.,  without  an  attached  elec- 
tron. It  may  under  certain  circumstances  unite  with  another 
hydroxyl  group,  due  possibly  to  the  quadrivalence  of  the 
oxygen  atoms;  they  may  serve  as  bonds  of  attachment  of  the 
two  groups  to  each  other,  thus : 

0-H+0-H  =  H-0^  =  0-H; 

or  only  one  of  the  three  latent  electrons  may  come  into  play, 
thus  forming  H-O— 0-H, 

the  others  being  existent,  though  not  in  evidence.  Or,  as 
more  generally  happens,  the  molecules  readjust  themselves, 
forming  water  and  free  oxygen  according  to  the  scheme 

0-H+0-H  =  H-0-H+0; 

and  the  atom  O  unites  with  a  neighbor  atom  of  O,  forming 

0==Oor=0=0, 

as  explained  before. 

It  may  be  objected  that  views  such  as  the  above  are  very 
hypothetical;  that  they  tend  to  complexity  and  not  to  sim- 
plicity; and  that  they  are  imperfect.  To  that  it  may  be 
replied  that  it  is  certain  that  some  ions  are  carriers  of  dec- 
trons,  and  that  others-the  positive  ions-travel  without 
manifest  electrons;  that  the  electron  is  certainly  to  be  re- 
garded as  an  element,  and  that  its  comings  and  goings,  its 
entering  and  escaping  from  chemical  compounds  must  there- 
fore be  chronicled  in  all  complete  equations;  that  the  intro- 

[9403 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

duction  of  a  new  element  capable  of  reacting  with  other 
elements  necessarily  tends  toward  complexity;  and  that  all 
first  attempts  to  represent  chemical  changes  are  of  necessity 
imperfect,  as  is  witnessed  by  the  enormous  progress  which 
has  been  made  in  the  graphic  notation  of  organic  chemistry. 

This  example  will  serve  to  illustrate  the  electrolysis  of 
any  chemical  compound;  the  processes  which  occur  are  sim- 
ilar in  kind,  although  they  may  differ  according  to  the  nature 
of  the  electrolysis. 

Let  us  next  consider  what  goes  on  in  a  simple  battery;  and 
we  may  suppose  a  plate  of  platinum  and  a  plate  of  zinc 
dipped  in  a  bath  of  dilute  hydrochloric  acid  and  coupled 
by  means  of  a  wire,  a  galvanometer  being  inserted  to  show 
the  direction  and  electromotive  force  of  the  current. 

The  solution  contains  chlorions  and  hydrions,  each  pro- 
tected by  water-molecules.  The  more  dilute  the  solution,  the 
more  efficient  the  protection  from  mutual  discharge  of  the 
anions  and  the  kations,  the  greater  the  ionization  of  the  solu- 
tion. Concentration  of  the  solution  by  diminishing  the 
relative  number  of  water-molecules  decreases  the  number  of 
ions  of  hydrogen  and  chlorine.  These  ions  are  to  be  sup- 
posed, before  introduction  of  the  platinum  and  zinc  plates, 
as  evenly  distributed  throughout  the  liquid. 

The  plates  are  now  introduced  but  not  yet  joined  by  a 
wire.  Now,  zinc,  for  some  reason  which  we  cannot  yet  guess 
at,  has  a  greater  tendency  to  dissolve  in  water  than  has 
platinum.  But  metallic  zinc,  which  is  really  a  compound  of 
a  zincion  with  two  electrons,  is  insoluble  in  water;  to  dis- 
solve, it  must  lose  its  electrons.  When  placed  in  water  which 
contains  some  few  hydrions,  a  trace  of  zinc  will  doubtless 
dissolve  as  ions,  while  a  trace  of  hydrogen  will  adhere  to  the 
surface  of  the  zinc.  But  the  pressure— the  solution-pressure, 
as  it  may  be  termed— will  soon  cease,  and  no  further  action 


i 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

will  occur.  On  joining  the  zinc  plate  to  the  platinum  plate 
by  means  of  a  wire  (let  us  suppose  of  copper),  the  zinc  be- 
gins to  dissolve,  while  for  every  atom  of  zinc  dissolved  a 
molecule  of  hydrogen  attaches  itself  to  the  surface  of  the 
platinum,  and  when  the  concentration  is  sufficient  it  escapes 

in  bubbles. 

In  order  that  the  zinc  shall  dissolve  it  must  lose  its  elec- 
trons.   These,  however,  require  a  channel  of  escape,  which 
they  find  in  the  copper  wire.     Leaving  for  a  moment  the 
nature  of  the  change  which  accompanies  their  transit,  let  us 
follow  them  to  the  surface  of  the  platinum  plate.    Here  they 
accumulate,  with  a  pressure  (that  is,  at  a  potential)  equal  in 
absolute  measure  to  the  solution-pressure  of  the  zinc  plate. 
The  hydrions  flock  to  the  platinum  plate,  for  they,  lacking 
electrons,    travel    to    where    electrons    are    plentiful;    each 
hydrion  acquires  an  electron,  unites  with  it,  and,   as  pre- 
viously explained,  joins  to  a  neighboring  atom  to  form  a 
molecule.    When  these  attain  a  sufficient  number  to  saturate 
the  neighboring  water,   and  the  capacity  of  platinum   for 
holding  atomic  or  molecular  hydrogen  (probably  atomic)  is 
attained,  the  molecules  of  hydrogen  escape  in  bubbles. 

The  chlorions— in  the  old  nomenclature  negatively 
charged.  In  the  new  conception  containing  each  an  active 
electron-are  attracted  to  the  spot  from  which  electrons  are 
flowing  away  through  the  wire.  Although  they  are  not 
otherwise  changed,  they  concentrate  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  anode,  from  which  zincions  are  being  propelled  into  the 
solution.  The  rate  of  their  flow  to  the  anode  depends  on 
their  specific  mobility  and  on  the  viscosity  of  the  liquid,  a 
condition  of  concentration  and  temperature. 

In  short,  the  process  taking  place  in  a  battery  has  consid- 
erable resemblance  to  that  which  causes  the  flow  of  a  liquid 
due  to  osmotic  pressure.    A  concentrated  solution,  in  contact 

1:9423 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

through  a  semipermeable  diaphragm  with  a  dilute  solution, 
tends  to  be  diluted;  the  solvent  from  the  dilute  solution 
passes  through  the  semipermeable  membrane  into  the  con- 
centrated solution,  and  lessens  its  concentration.     Now  the 
electrons  may  be  likened  to  the  solvent  of  the  dilute  solution; 
they  have  alternative  courses.     The  wire  is  permeable  to 
electrons,  but  not  to  ordinary  forms  of  matter;  it  acts  thus 
as  a  semipermeable  membrane.    The  pressure  may,  as  In  the 
case  of  osmosis,  be  regarded  from  two  points  of  view:  either 
as  that  of  the  solvent  entering  the  concentrated  solution 
through  the  semipermeable  membrane,  or  as  due  to  the  bom- 
bardment of  the  walls  of  the  vessel  containing  the  concen- 
trated solution  by  the  molecules  of  the  contained  solute.     So 
the  pressure  in  the  battery  may  be  regarded  from  two  points 
of  view:  either  as  the  difference  between  the  solution-pres- 
sure of  the  metallic  zinc  and  that  of  the  metallic  platinum, 
or  as  the  difference  In  the  affinity  of  electrons  for  zinc  and  for 
platinum.     It  is,  however,  the  property  of  the  electrons  to 
pass  along  the  wire,  which  differentiates  them  from  what  we 
generally    term    matter;    and,    as    already    remarked,    the 
phenomena  in  a  battery  afford  a  close  analogy  with  those 
producible  by  means  of  osmotic  pressure.     We  have  in  the 
battery  a  stream  of  electrons  passing  along  the  copper  wire 
as  long  as  there  is  zinc  to  dissolve  In  the  ionic  state,  or  as 
long  as  ions  of  hydrogen  remain  in  solution  to  unite  with  the 
electrons  on  the  surface  of  the  platinum.     This  current  of 
electrons  may  be  made  use  of  In  several  ways;  first,  it  may 
be  employed  in  electrolyzlng  an  interposed  solution— that 
phenomenon  has  already  been  considered.     Second,  it  may 
serve  to  heat  the  wire;  the  conditions  for  a  great  rise  of 
temperature  are  that  the  wire  shall  be  thin,  and  that  its  con- 
ductivity shall  not  be  high.    Third,  if  the  wire  be  colled,  and 

1:943] 


I, 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

if  a  magnet  be  suspended  within  the  coil,  it  will  set  itself  at 
right  angles  to  the  plane  of  the  coil. 

Let  us  first  consider  the  heating  of  the  wire,  for  that  in- 
volves the  theory  of  metallic  conduction. 

All  material  elements  are  capable  of  combination  with 
electrons.  Those  which  are  termed  bad  conductors  or  in- 
sulators, however,  do  not  readily  combine;  the  electrons 
therefore  form  a  layer  on  the  surface.  Such  a  layer  can  be 
produced  by  friction  between  two  non-conductors— for  in- 
stance, silk  and  sulphur.  As  has  been  known  for  a  century 
and  a  half,  ^'frictional  electricity''  can  be  produced  by  rub- 
bing a  silk  pad  on  a  cylinder  of  sulphur.  Here  the  surface 
of  the  sulphur  is  "negatively  electrified''—/.^.,  electrons 
leave  the  silk  and  adhere  to  the  sulphur.  If  a  glass  cylinder 
be  substituted  for  one  of  sulphur,  it  is  the  glass  which  loses 
electrons  and  the  silk  pad  which  gains;  hence  the  old  names 
*Vitreous"  for  positive  and  "resinous"  for  negative  elec- 
tricity. The  rubbing  of  a  metal  object  also  effects  the 
transfer  of  electrons;  but  in  this  case,  unless  the  metal  is 
supported  by  a  non-conductor,  the  loss  or  gain  of  electrons 
is  replaced  by  conduction  from  the  earth.  The  electrons 
spread  themselves  all  over  the  surface  of  the  metal,  instead 
of  adhering  in  patches,   as  they  do  if  non-conductors  be 

rubbed. 

When  a  salt  is  dissolved  in  water  it  is  the  metallic  portion 
which  loses  its  electron  or  electrons,  and  the  non-metallic  por- 
tion which  gains  them.  We  may  therefore  conclude  that 
metals  have  less  tendency  to  combine  with  electrons  than  non- 
metals,  and  that  the  more  "metallic"  an  element,  the  less  its 
tendency  to  hold  electrons.  It  is  therefore  to  be  expected 
that  in  a  metal  wire,  if  electrons  are  introduced  at  one  end, 
they  will  displace  those  in  combination  with  the  metal  at  the 
hither  end  of  the  wire,  and  that  this  process  will  go  on  con- 

i:944l 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

tinuously,  so  that  if  it  is  possible  for  electrons  to  escape  at 
the  further  end,  they  will  pass  from  one  end  of  the  wire  to 
the  other.  This  will  also  happen  with  rods  or  wires  of  poor 
conductors,  but  not  with  actual  non-conductors.  Transpar- 
ent fused  salts,  or  oxides,  such  as  rock-salt,  glass,  or  silica, 
are  practical  non-conductors.  Their  only  method  of  conduc- 
tion is  an  electrolytic  one,  and  the  mobility  of  their  molecules 
and  ions  is  so  small  that  they  cannot  serve  to  convey  elec- 
trons. But  in  a  copper  wire  the  transfer  of  electrons  is 
easily  effected. 

The  result  of  the  passage  of  a  current  through  a  poor  con- 
ductor of  small  section  is  to  heat  it.  This  heat  corresponds 
quantitatively  with  the  resistance  which  it  offers  to  the  pas- 
sage of  the  current.  It  may  be  conceived  that  the  electrons 
form  relatively  stable  compounds  with  the  atoms  of  the 
element  of  which  the  resisting  wire  is  composed,  and  that  in 
order  to  facilitate  their  passage  the  atoms  are  obliged  to  re- 
adjust their  position  relatively  to  each  other;  hence  friction 
and  heat.  It  would  follow  that  the  electrons  do  not  flow  as 
a  stream  through  the  interstices  between  the  atoms,  but  that 
they  form  temporary  and  unstable  compounds  with  the  metal 
as  they  flow.  It  must,  however,  be  acknowledged  that  this 
explanation  lacks  completeness,  which  further  experiment 
will  doubtless  assure. 

It  is  somewhat  beyond  the  scope  of  these  lectures  to  con- 
sider the  action  of  a  stream  of  electrons  on  the  position  of  a 
magnet.  The  flow  of  electrons,  it  may  however  be  re- 
marked, produces  a  strain  in  the  ether  which  interferes  with 
the  rotation  of  the  electrons  round  the  atoms  of  a  magnet- 
ized bar.  These  set  themselves  at  right  angles  to  the  plane 
of  the  wire  carrying  the  current.  Conversely,  a  forcible 
displacement  of  the  magnet  will  cause  a  shift  of  electrons  in 
the  wire.    But,  as  before  remarked,  owing  to  lack  of  definlte- 

[945] 


I. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

ness  in  our  ideas  of  the  nature  of  the  ether,  no  perfect  picture 
has  vet  been  made  of  the  mechanism  of  its  action.        ^ 

W    are  more  and  more  impressed  with  the  necessity  of  a 
.eThanical  conception  of  things  around  us;  ^^^^^ 
covery  shows  that  things  much  too  mmute  f or  us  to  see  a  e 
onstituted  in  a  manner  not  unlike  the  objects  apparent  to 
;;  enses.    Hence  we  must  regard  the  atoms  of  electricity 
__the  electrons-as  capable  of  taking  up  position  in  a  chem- 
ical compound,  just  as  we  have  imagined  the  atoms  to  do^   I 
itrue  that  w    cannot  maintain  that  the  atoms  are  without 

':    :„.     F„  from  i..     B-t  -  »»  "f  '"'/'t  /  S 

determine  the  position  of  their  centers  of  oscd  ation  o    rota 
tion      The  structure  of  compounds,  viewed  from  the  elec- 
onic  point  of  view,  will  form  the  subject  of  the  next  lecture. 


1:946:] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


Second  Lectii7'e 
COMPOUNDS  OF  ELECTROxNS 

WE  have  already  considered  one  compound— namely, 
water— from  the  point  of  view  of  the  shift  of  elec- 
trons during  the  reaction  of  gaseous  hydrogen  and  oxygen. 
It  may  conduce  to  clearness,  however,  if  similar  considera- 
tions are  applied  to  the  case  of  sodium  chloride,  one  method 
of  preparing  which,  though  far  from  a  commercial  one,  is 
the  ''direct  union"  of  sodium  with  chlorine.  It  may  be  re- 
marked, however,  that  union  does  not  take  place  between 
perfectly  dry  chlorine  and  clean  sodium;  It  appears  to  be 
necessary  that  a  trace  of  water-vapor  be  present.  The  role 
played  by  the  water  will  be  considered  later. 

On  the  electronic  hypothesis,  sodium,  the  metal  as  we  know 
It,  Is  a  compound  of  an  atom  of  sodium  with  an  electron. 
Chlorine,  too,  Is  a  compound  of  an  atom  of  chlorlon  with 
electrons;  and  Inasmuch  as  in  the  perchlorates  chlorine  func- 
tions as  a  heptad.  It  would  perhaps  be  proper  to  Indicate  that 
fact  whenever  the  chlorine  symbol  Is  written.  A  convenient 
method  Is  to  affix  to  the  symbol  of  the  element  the  Roman 
numeral  VII;  thus,  Cl^".  These  electrons,  however,  so  far 
as  we  know,  play  no  part  In  the  union  of  sodium  with  chlo- 
rine; hence  It  Is  permissible  to  omit  them  for  the  present.  It 
Is,  however,  to  be  noted  that  the  addition  of  one  more  elec- 
tron to  chlorine  raises  the  total  number  of  attached  electrons 
to  eight;  and  this  appears  to  be  the  highest  number  of  elec- 
trons with  which  an  element  can  be  associated. 

The    equation    Na-+Cl  =  Na-Cl    does    not    accurately 
express  the  whole  change,  for  that  Is  undoubtedly  preceded 

1:9473 


[ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

.       1.       u     „-.  n      C\  —  C1-+C1-,  and  the  simple  atoms 
by  the  change  LI — Ll  —  ^i   +<-•'   >  pn„rse 

of  chlorine  are  available  for  combmat.on.    It  .s,  of  course 
pos 'ble  that  the  chlorine  molecule  persists  by  -ason  of  the 
fnte  a    ion  of  several  electrons;  then  CI-  may  be  attach  d 

interacuuu  ui  uv^nr^Q"-  Cl^^ C^'  would 

to  its  neighbor  CI-  by  many     bonds       U    ^ 
express    the    case    already    mentioned;    but    CI  --^i 
Cl'  =  =  C1^  etc.,  would  equally  well  represent  combmat.ons 
o    the"  sor  .     In  the  absence  of  any  positive  evidence,  the 
Iplest  hypothesis  may  be  adopted,  and  the  abbreviated 

form  C1--C1  chosen.  r    i  i     • 

Union  between  an  atom  of  sodium  and  one  of  chlonne 
consists,  in  nil  probability,  in  .be  »se  o(  .b.  'I.e.- o     ■. 

sodium      The  formula  Na-Cl-^  would  appear  to  represent 
hf  compound,  because  as  soon  as  that  salt  -  dissolved  m 
waterTh    electron  is  undoubtedly  associated  with  the  chlorme 
Itom-  we  have  Na,  surrounded  by  water-molecules  on  the 
ne    h  nd,    and   on   the    other,    -Cl^A,,      Now    sod.um 
chloride  does  not  differ  in  properties  from  its  solution,  ex- 
cept  in  so  far  as  the  ions  are  free  to  migrate  after,  but  not 
befo  e   it  is  dissolved.    The  salt  has  a  specific  refractivity ; 
its       ution  possesses  a  refractivity  practically  the  mean  of 
ha    of  the  salt  and  the  water,  taken  in  the  proportions  in 
wh  ch  they  are  present  in  solution.     It  has  also  a  mean  spe- 
S:  be'jand,  in  sbort,  .an,  o.ber  physical  prop.r.,.s  o 
the  same  order.    It  is  therefore  more  than  probable,  if  the 
ex  stence  of  electrons  be  granted  at  all,  that  the  change  in 
po  ition  of  the  electron  originally  attached  to  the  atom  o 
Metallic  sodium  has  taken  place  during  the  formation  of  the 
Todium  chloride.    And  on  solution  in  water,  the  new  system 
d  vis :  the  sodium  ion,  surrounded  by  attracted  water-mole- 
cules,  constitutes  one  practically  independent  unit,  N  a.Aq 
vhil    the  chlorine  ion,  -C^^^q,  has  also  reached  indepen- 
I't  exttence.    This  is  proved  by  the  fact  that  these  entities 

1:948:1 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

exert  each  Its  own  calculated  osmotic  pressure;  and  further- 
more, that  the  chlorlon  can  be  attracted  to  a  metallic  anode, 
and  the  sodlon  to  a  metallic  kathode,  placed  In  the  solution. 
Similar  reasoning  may  be  applied  to  the  ordinary  hydroxides 
of  the  metals,  even  to  those  which  are  ordinarily  regarded 
as  Insoluble;  for  Insolubility  Is  only  a  relative  term,  and  reac- 
tions between  hydroxides  and  adds  are  no  doubt  only  effec- 
tive as  regards  that  portion  of  the  hydroxide  In  solution; 
because,  when  withdrawn,  and  after  reaction  with  the  acid  to 
form  a  salt  and  water,  It  Is  at  once  and  continuously  replaced, 
according  to  well  known  laws,  by  a  further  portion  which  goes 
Into  solution  as  Ions  of  metal  and  acld-radlcal.     It  may  be 
Imagined  that  the  attack  of  a  metal  like  sodium  by  chlorine, 
which  depends  on  the  presence  of  a  trace  of  moisture,  has  also 
to  do  with  the  action  of  the  metal  on  the  water.    It  Is,  how- 
ever, not  so  easy  to  give  a  reason.  For  the  loss  of  energy  due 
to  direct  formation  of  salt  from  sodium  and  chlorine  Is  ob- 
viously,  according  to  Hess's  law,  the  same  as  that  w^hlch 
ensues  when  salt  Is  formed  Indirectly,  according  to  the  usual 
scheme    2Na  +  2HOH  =  2NaOH  +  H2,    H.  +  Cl^  =.  2HCI, 
and   2NaOH  +  2HCl  =  2NaCl  +  2HOH;   the   molecule   of 
water  being  regenerated.  It  may  be  that  such  a  system  permits 
of  the  easier  transfer  of  the  electrons;  this  answer,  however, 
begs  the  question;  or  It  may  be  that  either  the  chlorine  or  the 
sodium,  or  both,  enter  Into  combination  with  the  water-mole- 
cules, making  use  of  the  latent  electrons  of  the  oxygen,  thus: 
Ho=0=Cl/''  and  Ho^O^Nao,  and  that  these  subsequently 
Interact  with  one  another.    This,  however,  opens  a  question, 
afterward  to  be  considered,  relating  to  the  source  of  the  elec- 
trons, which  are  depicted  as  bonds  between  the  oxygen  and 
the  chlorine  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  oxygen  and  the  sodium 
on  the  other. 

The  case  of  salts  in  general  is  analogous  to  that  of  the 

[949] 


#1 


( 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

chlorides  and  hydroxides.  The  "acid  radical"  is  in  itself  an 
ion,  carrying  with  it,  according  to  its  basicity,  mono-,  d.-, 
tri-,  etc.,  one,  two  or  three  electrons.  Thus  the  group  =S0, 
has  doubtless  two  available  electrons  ;=  P0„  three,  and  so 
on  The  portion  of  those  salts,  generally  regarded  as  in- 
soluble, which  is  in  a  state  of  solution  contains  such  ions ; 
and,  indeed,  a  determination  of  the  conductivity  of  the  very 
sparingly  soluble  salts  affords  an  elegant  plan  of  determining 

their  solubility.  .      ,    „    .„ 

In  certain  cases  ionization  does  not  occur  so  simply  as  to 
be  represented  by  a  metallic  anion  and  a  non-metalhc  kat.on 
Compounds  such,  for  example,  as  cupric  chloride  ionize,  a 
least  partially,   into   Cu.Aq  and  =CuCU.Aq.     Indeed,   it 
mav  be  stated  that  this  behavior  is  the  rule,  and  simple 
ionization  the  exception.    The  fluorides  and  the  cyanides  are 
particularly  prone   to  undergo   such  ionization  when  dis- 
solved.    On  the  other  hand,  salts  like  the  alums  and  the 
double  sulphates,  when  treated  with  water,  give  solutions  in 
which  the  simpler  ions  form  the  major  part  of  the  ions  pres- 
ent, although  no  doubt  accompanied  by  a  certain  Percentage 
of  more  complex  ions,  according  to  the  nature  of  the  salt  the 
degree  of  dilution,  and  the  temperature.    There  can  be  little 
doubt,  however,  that  in  the  solid  state,  or  in  the  crystal- 
line form,  with  water  of  crystallization,  it  is  the  complex 
ions  which  are  present.     For  instance,   a  partial  formula 
for    potash    alum     in     the     crystalline     state    would    be 
K-U^l(S0JJ.i2H,0;  although  in  solution  the  majority 
of  the  ions  are  K.Aq,  M-Aq,  -OH.Aq,  and  =SO   Aq. 

It  is  customary  to  call  salts  which  possess  mainly  the  latter 
character  "double  salts,"  and  those  which,  like  K,be(e.r^  )e- 
K^g(CN).,  Na,SiF«,  etc.,  ionize  according  to  the  more 
complex  scheme,  "complex  salts."     But  this  classification, 

1:950:] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

although  convenient,  is  not  exclusive.  It  is  probable — nay, 
certain — that  Ag  ions  are  present  in  a  solution  of  potassium 
argentocyanide  because  silver  can  be  electrodeposited  from 
Its  solution.  And  although  it  would  be  impossible  to  prove 
that  a  measurable  amount  of  the  silicon  ion  is  present  in  a 
solution  of  sodium  silicifluorlde,  it  must  be  regarded  as  an 
extreme  case. 

Change  of  valency  permits  of  easy  representation  on  the 
electronic  hypothesis.  As  an  illustration  the  ferrous  and 
ferric  salts  may  be  cited.  Supposing  the  ionization  of  the 
chlorides  to  occur  according  to  the  simple  scheme,  then  ferric 
chloride  is  FesCls"',  and  ferrous  chloride,  -Fe=Cl2"". 
The  third  electron,  present  in  combination  with  the  ferrion 
in  metallic  Iron,  plays  no  part  in  the  structure  of  ferrous 
chloride,  but  remains  latent.  It  can  be  brought  into  action 
by  chlorlnation,  or  by  oxidation,  when  the  iron  "changes  its 
valency."  Perhaps  the  speculation  may  be  here  allowed  that 
iron,  associated  with  three  electrons,  is  a  less  easily  attack- 
able body  than  when  one  electron  is  latent.  What  "latent" 
in  this  connection  signifies  is  merely  that  the  latent  electron  is 
not  so  easily  transferred  as  the  others.  In  iron,  for  example, 
as  in  all  other  elements,  the  maximum  number  of  electrons 
associated  with  an  atom  appears  to  be  eight.  Even  when 
the  iron  "acts  as  a  triad"  there  must  still  be  five  latent  elec- 
trons attached  to  the  iron  atom— electrons,  that  is,  which 
play  no  part  in  ferric  compounds.  Some  of  them,  however, 
are  essential  when  the  metal  acts  as  a  ferrate,  of  which  more 
hereafter. 

So  far,  the  symbol  -  (the  usual  one  for  a  valency  or  bond) 
has  been  employed  to  denote  an  electron.  This  has  the  con- 
venience of  long-established  custom;  and  it  also  fits  in  with 


I 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

the  resemblance  of  the  dash  to  the  negative  sign,  and  may  be 
taken  also  to  imply  a  unit  charge  of  negative  electnc.ty  asso- 
ciated with  the  compound  or  atom.  But  that  sign  does  not 
show  what  direction  the  electron  has  taken  dunng  the  forma- 
tion of  a  compound.  The  idea  of  direction  is  easily  m- 
troduced  by  the  conventional  barb  of  an  arrowhead;  and 
Na-^Cl  may  signify  that  during  the  formation  of  salt  the 
electron  which  couples  the  two  atoms  was  the  one  which  was 
originally  attached  to  the  sodium  when  it  was  in  the  metallic 
state;  and  also  that  on  solution  in  water  it  will  form  part  of 

the  chlorion. 

We  have  now  to  consider  the  electronic  formula  of  cer- 
tain more  complex  compounds;  and  as  examples  two  shall  be 
chosen,  viz.,  hydrogen  fluoride  and  ammonium  chloride 

In  the  gaseous  state  the  formula  of  hydrogen  fluoride  is 
H„F,;  and  in  solution,  H,F,.Aq.     How  are  the  electrons 
distributed  '    It  is  known  that  hydrofluoric  acid  may  ionize 
in  two  fashions:  H.Aq+-HF,.Aq  and  2H.Aq+=F,.Aq.    In 
the  first  case  the  second  hydrogen  atom  does  not  enter  the 
solution  in  the  ionic  state.    How  is  it  attached?    And  how 
are  the  two  atoms  of  fluorine  combined  together?    Answers 
to  these  questions  must  necessarily  be  of  a  speculative  na- 
ture- but  it  appears  best  to  set  up  a  provisional  theory  which 
must  stand  the  test  of  experience  and  prove  compatible  with 
the  constitutions  assigned  to  other  compounds. 

It  appears  to  me  that  it  must  be  concluded  that  an  atom 
mav  have  the  power  both  of  giving  and  taking  an  electron. 
If  a  hydrogen  atom  parts  with  an  electron  to  a  chlorine  atom, 
so  that  the  electron  is  more  closely  associated  with  the  chlo- 
rine than  with  the  hydrogen  atom,  then,  on  solution  in  water, 
the  hydrion  will  separate  as  an  entity.  If,  however,  the 
hydrogen  atom  H-  not  merely  parts  with  an  electron  to  an 

[952] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

atom  of  fluorine,  but  receives  one  in  return,  then:  H?^F;  the 
hydrogen  ion  does  not  separate  on  addition  of  water.  But 
by  this  process  the  fluorine  atom  has  acquired  the  property 
of  disposing  of  an  electron  which  would  otherwise  remain 
latent.  This  serves  as  the  bond  of  connection  between  the  two 
fluorine  atoms.  It  may  be  expressed  thus:  H^F«-F<— H; 
the  kation  will  then  be  H«=±F«-F^,  and  the  anion  H. 

In  this  manner  it  may  be  conceived  that  a  molecule  of 
chlorine  may  be  constituted:  C1?^C1;  and  its  combination 
with  water,  preliminary  to  the  attack  of  sodium,  would  be 
thus  represented: 

"     ^Cl 

Let  us  next  consider  the  case  of  ammonium  chloride. 
Here  we  have  the  group  NH4CI,  which  on  solution  yields 
the  ions  (NH4).Aq  and  -Cl.Aq,  similar  to  common  salt. 
So  far  the  case  is  clear.  How  is  the  group  NH4  to  be  repre- 
sented? 

The  hydrogen  of  the  hydrogen  chloride  has  already  given 
its  electron  to  the  chlorine;  it  has,  by  hypothesis,  no  electron 
to  bind  it  to  the  nitrogen  atom.  The  effective  electron  must 
therefore  come  from  the  nitrogen.  But  there  is  no  known 
difference  between  the  four  hydrogen  atoms  of  ammonium 
chloride.  Of  course  it  is  true  that  when  heated  one  hy- 
drogen atom  associates  itself  with  the  chlorine  (when  the 
vapor  is  damp)  ;  but,  so  far  as  is  know^n,  any  one  of  the  four 
hydrogen  atoms  miay  do  so.  It  may  be  remarked,  in  passing, 
that  the  fact  that  two  varieties  of  tetra-substituted  ammo- 
nium chloride  exist  has  no  bearing  on  the  question  before  us. 
That  has  purely  stereo-chemical  reasons.     I  suggest  as  one 

1:953] 


f  • 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 
solution  of  the  problem  that  the  nitrogen  atom  parts  with  its 
electrons  to  all  four  hydrogen  atoms,  thus : 


H 


H 

t 

N 

H""  i 
H 


CI 


the  fifth  having  become  the  bond  to  the  chlorine  atom.  In 
solution,  the  group  NH,  is  left.  _  The  vertical  line  shows 
how  ionization  occurs  on  solution  in  water. 

This  opens  the  general  question.  How  are  the  electrons 
attached  in  the  case  of  non-ionizable  substances,  such  as 
PCI3  or  CH4,  to  choose  only  two  among  almost  innumera- 
ble instances?  .J-    J 

It  may  be  taken  as  certain  that  the  acidity  of  an  acid  is  due 
to  the  hydrion,  H,  which  accompanies  its  solution  in  water; 
and  the  residual  group  may  be  depicted  as  A^.    From  this 
it  may  be  argued  that,  as  a  rule,  where  the  compound  is  non- 
ionizable,  not  only  is  the  hydrion  absent,  but  the  disposition 
of  the  electron  is  such  that  ionization  cannot  occur;  the 
hydrogen  does  not  part  with  its  electron  to  the  other  element 
or  group.     But  if  the  hydrogen  were  to  retain  its  electron 
and  suffer  no  further  change,  it  is  to  be  presumed  that  it 
would  still  retain  the  properties  of  the  element;  hence  some 
change  must  have  occurred.     Indeed,  there  are  only  three 
possibilities:  (i)  that  the  hydrogen  parts  with  an  electron 
and  that  has  been  shown  to  be  practically  impossible;  (2) 
that  it  receives  one;  and  (3)  that  both  its  own  electron  and 
the  one  which  it  receives  are  the  cause  of  its  staying  in  com- 
bination.   The  first  case  may  be  represented,  as  before^^by 
A*-H-  the  second,  by  X^H-^;  and  the  third,  by  X^H. 
We  know  only  that  methyl  iodide,  CH3I,  is  not  generally 

1:954: 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

regarded  as  an  ionized  compound,  and  yet,  on  long  shaking 
with  a  solution  of  silver  nitrate,  silver  iodide  is  formed  even 
in  aqueous  solution.  This  precipitation  takes  place  more 
rapidly  in  alcoholic  solution,  probably  because  of  the  more 
intimate  contact  between  the  reacting  bodies.  Now  the  usual 
representation  of  such  a  fact  would  be  (CH3)|->I.  The 
group  CH3  has  a  positive  charge;  it  has  lost  an  electron  to 
the  iodine,  which  has  become  iodion,  -^I.  The  explanation 
has  already  been  given  in  the  case  of  ammonia;  it  may  be 
symbolized  thus: 


H 


H 

t 

-C 

i 
H 


I 


This  leads  us  to  consider  the  hydrocarbon  CH^;  and  it  may 
evidently  be  represented  on  the  same  scheme,  viz. : 


H 


H 

t 
-C^H 

i 
H 


No  one  of  the  hydrogen  atoms  is  replaceable;  they  are 
all  negatively  electrified—?.^.,  to  use  an  exaggeration  which 
will  be  understood,  they  are  more  negatively  charged  than 
gaseous  hydrogen  Itself,  each  atom  having  received  an  extra 
electron.  Just  as  metallic  zinc  can  be  preserved  from  attack 
by  imparting  to  It  a  powerful  negative  charge,  so  these  atoms 
of  hydrogen  are  rendered  inactive  by  virtue  of  the  protective 
electrons  which  they  receive  from  the  carbon  atom. 

Analogous  reasoning  will  prove  applicable  to  compounds 
like  phosphorus  chloride;  here  the  electrons  possibly  come 

i:9S5n 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

from  the  phosphorus  atom  and  from  the  junctions  with  the 
phosphorus  atom,  thus: 

CI 


Cl^P 


>^ 


CI 


The  addition  of  two  atoms  of  chlorine  to  form  phosphoric 
chloride  would  be  too  speculative  to  Interpret;  and  it  may  be 
remarked  that  the  electrons  are  probably  also  derived  from 

the  phosphorus.  ^  . 

Let  us  now  return  to  the  halogens,  and  examme  their 
valency  in  the  light  of  the  electron  theory.    According  to  the 
ordinary  view,   the   acids   are,   as   a   rule,   dehydrated  hy- 
droxides; the  elements  with  high  valency  do  not  form  nor- 
mal hydroxides;  the  known  compounds  are  derived  from 
these  hypothetical  compounds  through  loss  of  water.     A 
single  example  will  render  this  clear,  and  the  case  of  chlorme 
Is  instructive.    The  oxv-acids  of  chlorine  are:  HCIO,  hypo- 
chlorous  acid;  HCIO,,  chlorous  acid;  HCIO,,  chloric  acid; 
and  HCIO4,  perchloric  acid.     In  the  first  of  these  chlorme 
functions  as  a  monad;  in  the  second,  as  a  triad;  in  the  third, 
as  a  pentad;  and  in  the  fourth,  as  a  heptad.     The  normal 
hydroxides  would  be:    (i)    ClOH;    (2)    CI  (OH)  3;    (3) 
Cl(OH),;and  (4)  Cl(OH),.    The  first  is  known  as  such; 
the  ordinary  formula  of  chlorous  acid,  as  revealed  by  its 
salts    is  0=C1-0H;  that  of  chloric  acid,    (Oo)^^d-OH; 
and  of  perchloric  acid,  (03)^^C1-0H.    Now  while  caustic 
soda  ionizes  into  hydroxyl  and  sodium,  -OH  and  Na,  hypo- 
chlorous  acid,  which  displays  some  small  extent  of  ioniza- 
tion, in  solution  gives  (CIO)-  and  H  as  its  Ions.    And  since 
it  is  clear  in  the  first  case  that  the  atom  of  sodium  metal,  m 
becoming  hydroxide,  has  given  an  electron  to  the  oxygen, 
while  hydrogen  is  still  retained  by  the  oxygen,  the  direction 
of  electrons  must  be  -^O^H,  or  possibly  ->0-^H-,  or  pos- 

[9563 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

sibly  -^O^H;  in  the  last  case  the  hydrogen  electron  as  well 
as  that  pertaining  to  the  oxygen  taking  part  in  the  union. 
Similarly,  when  hypochlorous  acid  ionizes,  the  ions  are 
(CIO)-  and  H ;  it  is  clear  that  the  hydrogen  atom  has  parted 
with  its  electron  to  the  group  (CIO),  and  probably  to  the 
oxygen  atom;  we  may  therefore  write  its  formula  ClO-^H. 
How  are  the  chlorine  and  oxygen  atoms  connected? 

The  highest  valency  of  any  element  appears  to  be  eight; 
and  in  perchlorates  that  of  chlorine  is  seven.  It  would  be 
possible  for  the  heptavalent  chlorine — i.e.,  the  atom  of 
chlorine  stuff  combined  with  seven  electrons— to  absorb  an 
eighth.  That  must  be  supposed  to  occur  in  hydrogen  chlo- 
ride; hence  we  may  write  its  formula  Cl^"«-H,  the  Roman 
numeral  VII  expressing  the  electrons  already  attached.  The 
formula  Cl^^^-O-^H  would  thus  portray  the  condition  of 
the  electrons.  This,  however,  gives  no  clue  as  to  the  splitting 
off  of  an  electronless  hydrion  in  preference  to  the  hydroxyl 
group  <— O^-H.  It  may  therefore  be  imagined  that  one  or 
more  of  the  seven  electrons  of  the  chlorine  atom  take  part 
in  retaining  the  oxygen  atom.  And  this  becomes  a  necessity 
when  we  consider  one  of  the  higher  acids.  Were  each 
oxygen  atom  of  perchloric  acid  to  transfer  one  or  two  elec- 
trons to  the  chlorine,  the  latter  would  be  overladen.  Hence 
electrons  must  be  derived  from  the  chlorine;  and  if  each 
atom  of  oxygen  requires  two  electrons  to  bind  It  (except  the 
hydroxyl  oxygen,  which,  having  received  one  already  from 
the  hydrion,  will  be  content  with  one  more),  then  the  for- 
mula of  perchloric  acid  may  be  written : 

O    O 
^  // 
O^Cl^O^H 

I 

o 

Chloric  acid  may  be  similarly  represented;  but  the  chlorine 

1:957] 


.«iKI'WIII>„.«;"UM.'.!'.l!'l!'ll'J«,p'- 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

symbol  should  be  written  CI",  to  signify  that  it  stlU  retains 
two  electrons;  and  the  chlorine  in  chlorous  acid  retains  four 
out  of  the  seven.  These  electrons  correspond  to  what  have 
sometimes  been  called  "contra-valencies"  (see  Abegg's  pub- 
lications). 

It  is  not  necessary  to  multiply  instances;  the  electronic 
constitution  of  all  the  oxy-acids  can  be  thus  represented. 

We  have  now  a  clue  to  the  constitution  of  the  oxides  and 
anhydrides.  Orthocarbonic  acid,  as  represented  by  its 
esters,  will  have  the  formula  C(->O^H)4;  carbonic  acid, 
O— C(->O^H)o;  and  it  follows  that  COo  must  be 
(;;(^0)o.  By  analogous  formulae  we  can  represent  all  the 
oxides  and  sulphides  of  the  metals. 

The  unsaturated  oxides  call  for  a  short  comment.  We 
have  CO,  also  ClOo,  NO  and  NOo,  as  somewhat  outstand- 
ing compounds.  As  for  CO,  it  may  be  treated  like  the  other 
oxides;  or  again,  it  may  be  that  the  electrons  concerned  come 
from  the  oxygen,  thus:  C^^^O.  The  hypothesis,  as  for- 
merly suggested,  that  one  electron  has  been  derived  from 
the  oxygen,  the  other  from  the  carbon  atom,  thus:  C'^^O, 
is  not  excluded.  This  would  appear,  on  the  whole,  the  most 
probable  assumption,  for  in  that  case  the  valency  of  the 
carbon  is  not  disturbed.  On  this  hypothesis,  the  formulae  of 
chlorine  peroxide,  of  nitric  oxide,^and  of  nitric  peroxide 
would  be  Clv"Zg'  N^^O,  and  N^^g,  respectively. 

We  now  see  that  the  maximum  number  of  electrons  v/ith 
which  an  element  can  be  associated  is  eight.  When  some  of 
these  are  employed  in  holding  together  the  constituent  atoms 
of  compounds,  the  remainder  are  ''latent";  they  may  under 
certain  circumstances  come  into  action,  and  in  some  Instances 
the  acting  electrons  are  derived  from  both  constituents  of  a 
binary  compound.  Here  we  have,  perhaps,  an  explanation 
of  amphoteric  bodies— bodies  like  zinc  hydroxide,  which  can 

[958:1 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

function  either  as  a  base  or  as  an  acid.  In  the  former 
case  the  electrons  would  appear  to  be  arranged  thus: 
Zn(->0->H)2;  in  the  latter,  thus:  Zn(-^0<-H)2.  In  all 
probability  the  oxide  is  a  zincate  of  zinc,  for  which  an  appro- 
priate electronic  formula  can  easily  be  worked  out. 

We  come  next  to  the  consideration  of  how  the  electrons 
form  ties  between  the  atoms  of  compounds;  and  this  must 
necessarily  be  of  a  speculative  character.  But  we  have  one 
point  de  depart.  We  know  that  a  stream  of  electrons 
repels  a  similar  stream  of  electrons  passing  In  the  same  direc- 
tion, and  attracts  a  stream  of  electrons  passing  in  the  oppo- 
site direction.  Reasoning  which  applies  to  a  number  of 
electrons  in  all  probability  applies  to  single  electrons,  and  it 
is  known  to  be  equally  applicable  to  curvilinear  as  to  straight- 
line  motion.  Assuming  that  the  electron  connected  with  an 
atom  of  metallic  sodium  Is  rotating  in  a  clockwise  direction, 
viewed  from  the  center  of  the  atom,  and  one  of  the  seven 
normally  attached  to  an  atom  of  chlorine  is  rotating  In  an 
anti-clockwise  direction,  combination  may  be  supposed  to 
take  place  when  their  planes  of  rotation  become  parallel, 
thus: 

Solution  In  water  leaves  the  sodium  atom  minus  Its  electron, 
which  remains  attached  to  the  chlorine  atom. 

The  applicability  of  this  conception  to  the  position  which 
substituents  take  up  In  carbon  compounds,  and  to  the  Influ- 
ence of  groups  already  present  on  such  position,  is  easily  seen 
and  need  not  be  enlarged  on,  but  they  form  a  not  unimpor- 
tant part  of  chemistry.  The  Influence  exerted  on  atoms  by 
neighboring  atoms  and  groups  also  finds  ready  explanation, 
and  many  Instances  will  at  once  suggest  themselves. 

Certain  compounds  show  absorption  spectra;  others  do 

[959] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 
not,  so  far  as  Is  known,  absorb  light  either  In  the  visible  or 
Invisible  spectrum.  From  Zeeman's  experiments  and  Lo- 
rentz's  theory  It  Is  clear  that  the  circular  paths  usually  fol- 
lowed by  electrons  can  be  changed  to  elliptic  ones;  here  we 
have  to  some  extent  a  proof  that  the  permanent  circular 
motion  of  electrons  In  compounds  Is  not  Imaginary.  Under 
the  InBuence  of  a  magnetic  field,  all  compounds  which  trans- 
mit  polarized  light  rotate  the  plane  of  polarization;  here  we 
have  the  magnet  arranging  the  planes  of  rotation  of  the 
already  rotating  electrons,  so  that  they  affect  ethereal  waves 
passing  In  their  neighborhood. 

These  rotating  electrons  represent  the  "tubes  of  force" 
which  have  sometimes  been  Imagined  as  the  mechanism  of 
chemical  attraction.  As  yet  we  cannot  account  for  the  fact 
that  two  electrons,  moving  In  opposed  parallel  paths,  attract 
each  other;  It  Is  merely  another  Instance  of  the  Inexplicable 
problem  of  "action  at  a  distance,"  which  has  puzzled  all 
philosophers  since  the  time  of  Newton  and  earlier,  and  even 
now  we  are  no  nearer  an  explanation.  What  can  be  done, 
however,  Is  to  trace  the  connection  between  the  now  known 
fact  that  chemical  elements  and  compounds  Invariably,  so 
far  as  we  know,  contain  electrons  among  their  constituents, 
and  the  mechanism  of  a  compound  containing  electrons  in 

motion. 

In  this  lecture  many  of  the  conceptions  are  similar  to  those 
put  forward  In  the  author's  presidential  address  to  the 
Chemical  Society  of  London  in  March,  1908 ;  hence  no  allu- 
sion has  been  made  here  to  the  possible  explanation  of  the 
constitution  of  some  complex  compounds  by  the  electronic 
hypothesis;  nor  has  the  theory  of  isorrhopaesis,  developed  by 
Baly  and  his  school,  been  touched  on.  Reference  to  the  pub- 
lished papers  will  show  how  easily  their  conceptions  fit  the 
theory  of  electrons.     It  must  be  distinctly  noted  that  much 

1:960:3 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

of  what  has  preceded  is  now  no  longer  hypothetical,  but  ac- 
tual statement  of  fact.  The  electron  is  no  mythical  concep- 
tion, and  that  it  enters  into  the  constitution  of  matter  is  as 
certain  as  that  matter  exists. 

The  combination  of  one  hydrogen  atom  with  another  to 
form  a  molecule  may  finally  be  again  considered.  Suppose 
that  the  constitution  of  the  atom  Is  such  that  the  electron  is 
not  free  to  shift  its  position  on  the  surface  of  the  molecule, 
which  may  be  taken  as  a  sphere.  If  two  such  atoms  have 
electrons  rotating  in  circular  paths  on  their  surfaces  in  a 
clockwise  direction,  then,  when  the  sides  of  the  atoms  fur- 
nished with  electrons  are  opposite,  the  electron  on  one  atom 
will  be  rotating  clockwise,  while  that  on  the  other  will  be 
anti-clockwise,  when  viewed  from  the  same  point.  Their 
orbits  being  in  opposite  phase,  they  will  repel.  If,  however, 
one  is  rotating  in  clockwise  and  the  other  in  anti-clockwise 
fashion,  as  is  probably  the  case  with  H  and  CI,  they  will 
attract.    This  may  be  depicted  thus : 

H  O    O  Cl 

or  in  abbreviated  form,  H — Cl.^ 


^  Note  added  May  23,  1915:  Experiments  with  models  have  shown  that 
when  two  spheres,  representing  two  atoms  of  hydrogen,  each  provided  with  a 
coil  of  wire,  through  which  an  electric  current  is  passing  (so  as  to  imitate  the 
path  of  an  electron),  are  placed  near  each  other  they  set  themselves  (seen 
from  above)  in  such  a  position  that  the  two  coils  of  wire  lie  in  the  same  plane, 
thus:— 


0/0 


C9613 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


Third  Lecture 
THE  DISRUPTION  OF  THE  SO-CALLED  ELEMENTS 

THE  mechanism  by  which  one  element  is  retained  In  com- 
bination  with  another  has  been  a  matter  of  frequent 
speculation.  That  the  properties  of  atoms  depend  on  their 
shape  was  an  idea  held  by  the  ancients;  pointed  atoms  giving 
an  acid  or  "sharp"  taste  to  solutions  contaimng  them,  while 
the  impression  of  sweetness  was  imagined  to  be  due  to  the 
spherical  and  smooth  nature  of  the  atoms  of  sugary  bodies, 
and  their  soothing  action  on  the  organs  of  taste.  ^ 

After  tables  of  affinity,  showing  the  order  of  preferential 
combination  of  elements  with  each  other,  had  been  drawn  up 
by  Bergman  of  Sweden  in  the  early  half  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  the  hypothesis  was  revived  that  one  element  is  at- 
tached to  another  by  means  of  hooks  capable  of  interlacing. 
The  mechanical  nature  of  this  suggestion  was  at  that  time 
hardly  a  recommendation;  and  in  determining  the  propor- 
tions  in  which  atoms  combine,  the  mechanism  of  their  com- 
bination  was  tacitly  ignored. 

The  prominence  given  by  Frankland  and  his  school  to  the 
doctrine  of  valency,  and  the  important  advances  in  the  theory 
of  organic  chemistry  made  by  Kekule  in  the  sixties  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  again  directed  attention  to  the  subject. 
Although  no  clear  conceptions  were  formulated,  combina- 
tion was  represented  by  dashes,  to  which  the  name  of 
"bonds"  or  "affinities"  was  ascribed.  Each  element  capable 
of  combining  with  or  of  replacing  one  atom  of  hydrogen  had 
attached  to  its  symbol  one  "bond"  or  dash,  and  was  termed 
"monovalent,"  or  a  monad;  one  with  the  power  of  retaming 

[962:] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

or  of  replacing  two  atoms  of  hydrogen  had  two  "bonds," 
and  was  termed  a  dyad,  or  divalent;  and  so  with  the  rest. 
But  no  mechanical  idea  of  the  nature  of  these  bonds  secured 
acceptance;  they  were  regarded  as  arbitrary  symbols  with 
the  signification  ascribed  to  them  above. 

The  fact  that  less  heat  is  evolved  on  making  attachment 
of  one  carbon  atom  to  another  by  a  "double"  than  by  a  "sin- 
gle" bond  made  it  improbable  that  such  bonds  were  of  the 
nature  of  links  or  hooks;  and  the  almost  thermal  neutrality 
of  the  "triple"  bond  strengthened  this  Impression. 

Such  views,  indefinite  as  they  were,  tacitly  assumed  that 
two  atoms  when  they  combine  do  not  interpenetrate;  indeed, 
the  notion  of  an  atom  as  an  indivisible  entity  precluded  the 
conception  of  Interpenetratlon.  But  the  advance  of  know- 
ledge, which  has  rendered  it  conceivable  that  atoms  may 
consist  of  congeries  of  electrons,  now  makes  it  not  impossible 
that  the  combination  of  one  atom  with  another  may  be  at- 
tended with  interpenetratlon,  the  one  system  of  electrons 
entering  the  other  and  establishing  a  more  complicated  sys- 
tem. Sir  J.  J.  Thomson,  some  years  ago,  threw  out  the  In- 
genious hypothesis  that  the  combination  of  atoms  may  be 
due  to  the  annular  rotation  of  one  vortex-ring  round  an- 
other; and  he  adduced  Interesting  speculations  on  the  number 
of  rings  capable  of  taking  part  In  such  annular  rotation,  and 
the  stability  of  the  resulting  system. 

But  these  speculations  were  anterior  to  the  discovery  of 
the  electron  as  a  chemical  element;  and  though  by  no  means 
to  be  lost  sight  of,  they  may  be  allowed  to  stay  in  the  back- 
ground for  the  present. 

In  this  lecture  I  shall  attempt  to  put  together  evidence 
which,  I  hope,  will  eventually  accumulate  so  as  to  throw  light 
on  the  whole  question.  It  will  be  remembered  that  in  the 
second  lecture  the  speculation  was  made  that  the  staying  In 

n963n 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

combination  of  two  atoms  was  possibly  due  to  the  attraction 
exercised  by  their  ^Valency"  electrons  rotatmg  m  similar 
directions.  We  have  now  to  consider  whether  any  means 
can  be  discovered  which  will  disturb  such  a  system,  and  by 
setting  free  ions  in  such  a  condition  that  they  can  be  exam- 
ined  light  may  be  thrown  on  the  mechanism  of  combination; 
furthermore,  whether  means  are  at  our  disposal  of  still  more 
fundamentally  altering  the  motion  and  distribution  of  the 
atoms  of  the  ''elements,^'  so  that  a  change  of  the  nature  of 
transmutation  of  one  element  into  another  can  be  effected. 

For  this  end  three  lines  of  argument  may  be  adduced. 
These  are: 

1.  The  evidence  of  the  spontaneous  disintegration  of  the 
radioactive  "elements.'' 

2.  The  evidence  that  disintegration  of  a  somewhat  similar 
nature  occurs  in  the  stars. 

3.  The  evidence  that  by  applying  concentrated  forms  of 
energy  to  the  common  elements,  these  can  be  made 
either  to  undergo  reversible  changes,  consisting  in  the 
loss  or  gain  of  one  or  more  "valency"  electrons,  or  to 
lose  more  fundamental  electrons,  and  so  to  undergo 
"elemental  change,"  or  transmutation. 

I  The  first  line  of  evidence  is  now  so  well  known  that  it 
may  be  treated  in  a  cursory  manner.  The  discovery  by 
Henri  Becquerel  that  an  electroscope  is  rapidly  discharged 
when  in  actual  communication,  by  means  of  a  tube,  with  a 
vessel  in  which  a  salt  of  radium  was  contained,  was  followed 
by  the  discovery,  by  Schmidt,  of  the  transmissibility  of  a 
gaseous  educt  of  thorium  through  a  tube.  The  determination 
of  the  nature  of  this  substance  by  Rutherford  and  Soddy ;  the 

[964: 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

establishment  of  the  similar  nature  of  the  body  emitted  from 
salts  of  radium  now  known  as  niton;  the  proof  of  its  gradual 
"decay"  and  reproduction  from  its  parent  substance  at 
such  rate  as  to  keep  the  total  amount  present  in  contact  with 
the  parent  body  in  a  state  of  equilibrium;  the  naming  of 
these  bodies  "emanations";  their  condensation  by  liquid  air; 
and  lastly,  the  theory  of  disintegration  applied  to  such 
bodies,  — all  these  constitute  one  of  the  most  brilliant  chap- 
ters in  the  history  of  chemistry. 

The  subsequent  discovery  by  Ramsay  and  Soddy,  in  1903, 
of  the  fact  that  one  of  the  products  emitted  during  the  disin- 
tegration of  radium  and  of  its  emanation  was  the  now  well 
known  element  helium,  and  the  determination  of  the  gaseous 
nature  of  radium  emanation  by  the  same  investigators;  the 
mapping  of  its  spectrum  by  Ramsay  and  Collie,  by  Cameron, 
and  more  accurately  by  Royds  and  by  Watson;  its  liquefac- 
tion, the  measurement  of  its  vapor-pressures,  its  boiling- 
point,  its  critical  point,  and  lastly  of  its  density  by  Ramsay 
and  Whytlaw-Gray,  established  the  claim  of  radium  emana- 
tion to  be  ranked  among  the  "elements,"  and  to  have 
ascribed  to  it  the  systematic  name  "niton"  and  the  symbol 
Nt;  for  its  inactivity  proves  it  to  belong  to  the  series  of  inert 
gases,  of  which  argon  is  the  best  known. 

It  has  also  been  shown  by  many  investigators  that  from 
thorium  and  its  educts  helium  is  evolved  during  their  disin- 
tegration; and  by  Debierne,  the  discoverer  of  actinium,  that 
it,  too,  yields  helium  during  its  radioactive  changes. 

Not  merely  this:  the  number  of  atoms  of  helium  evolved 
during  the  various  changes  has  been  ascertained.  The  emis- 
sion of  a  helium  atom  takes  place  with  an  atomic  explosion; 
the  atom  evolved  has  a  high  velocity— so  high  that  it  ionizes 
any  gas  through  which  it  passes,  and  renders  the  ionized  gas 
capable  of  discharging  an  electroscope.     It  was  Becquerel 

C965:] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

who  first  recognized  this  fact,  and  who  characterized  such 
moving  atoms  of  helium   (their  nature,  however,  bemg  at 
that  time  unknown)  as  a-rays,  to  distinguish  them  from  the 
even  more  rapidly  moving  ^-rays,  now  known  to  be  elec- 
trons in  motion.    Confining  our  attention  for  the  present  to 
the  a-rays,  they  are  known  to  be  evolved  when  radium  dis- 
integrates into  niton  and  helium;  for  each  atom  of  radium, 
one  a-particle,  or  helium  atom,  is  evolved.     Next,  when 
niton  disintegrates,  forming  radium  A,  a-particle  is  again 
expelled ;  the  spontaneous  change  of  radium  A  into  radium 
B     however,    is    accompanied    only    by    the    emission    of 
electrons  in  motion,  or  ^-rays;  but  the  changes  of  radium  B 
into  radium  C,  and  of  radium  C  into  radium  D,  are  each 
accompanied  by  the  emission  of  an  atom  of  helium.    There 
are  in  all  four  atoms  of  helium  expelled  between  radium  it- 
self, the  great-great-grandfather,  and  radium  D,  the  great- 
great-grandson,  and  three  between  niton  and  radium  D.    It 
is  not  necessary  to  pass  further  down  the  scale,  for  the  lite 
of  radium  D  is  a  comparatively  long  one.    But  three  atoms 
of  helium  are   expelled   during  the   change  of  niton  into 
radium  D,  and  this  fact  has  been  verified  by  Ramsay  and 
Whytlaw-Gray  by  aid  of  the  microbalance. 

It  may  be  taken  as  certain,  therefore,  that  radium,  as  well 
as  thorium  and  actinium,  which  undergo  analogous  changes, 
is  the  ancestor  of  numerous  elements.     Of  the  elementary 
nature  of  radium  and  of  niton,  according  to  the  usual  inter- 
pretation of  the  word  "element,"  there  can  be  no  doubt 
whatever;  for  the  former  has  been  isolated  m  a  metallic 
state  by  its  discoverer,  Mme.  Curie,  and  is  said  closely  to 
resemble  barium,  an  element  to  which  its  salts  bear  a  close 
resemblance;  while  niton,  as  previously  remarked   bears  a 
close  resemblance  to  the  inactive  elements  of  the  helium  and 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

argon  series,  and  is  a  congener  of  neon,  krypton,  and  xenon, 
as  shown  by  its  physical  properties  and  by  its  spectrum. 

Here,  then,  we  have  spontaneous  transformation  of  one 
elementary  form  of  matter  into  others.  The  "elements"  are 
not  elementary,  but  some  of  them  at  least  are  only  com- 
pounds of  exceptional  nature,  spontaneously  capable  of 
decomposition.  It  remains  for  us  now  to  determine  whether 
"elements"  other  than  "radioactive  elements"  are  capable 
of  change;  and  inasmuch  as  the  time  required  for  changes  of 
the  kind  varies  enormously,  from  millions  of  years  for  the 
change  of  uranium  into  radium,  of  which  it  appears  to  be  the 
grandparent,  to  a  few  seconds,  the  half  life-period  of  actin- 
ium emanation.  It  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  the  periods 
of  change  of  the  older  and  commoner  elements  may  be  enor- 
mously long— so  long,  indeed,  as  to  elude  human  observa- 
tion. 

But  another  phenomenon  attending  the  spontaneous 
change  of  the  radioactive  elements  must  not  be  left  out  of 
sight:  the  changes  alluded  to  are  all  accompanied  by  enor- 
mous evolution  of  heat;  they  are  in  the  highest  degree  exo- 
thermic; and  conversely,  if  it  were  possible  to  produce  such 
radioactive  elements  by  inducing  their  products  of  disintegra- 
tion to  combine,  an  enormous  absorption  of  energy  would 
be  essential.  Bodies  formed  by  absorption  of  energy  are 
termed  "endothermic";  they  are  not  infrequent  among  com- 
pounds, and  they  are  among  the  least  stable.  It  is,  however, 
by  no  means  certain  that  the  ordinary  elements,  which  we 
generally  reckon  as  stable,  are  endothermic;  they  may  be 
exothermic,  in  which  case  we  should  expect  them  to  exist 
indefinitely  without  change,  provided  they  are  not  made  to 
receive  energy.  An  analogous  case,  familiar  among  com- 
pounds, is  ammonium  chloride.  Left  to  itself,  it  may  be 
kept  for  an  indefinite  time ;  but  when  heated  to  360°  C.  it  dis- 

1:967] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

sociates  into  ammonia  and  hydrogen  chloride.  May  it  not 
be  the  case  that  the  ordinary  ^^stable  elements  are  m  this 
sense  similar  to  ammonium  chloride ;  that  as  long  as  they  are 
not  made  the  recipients  of  large  quantities  of  energy  they 
remain  as  they  are;  but  if  subjected  to  an  accession  of 
energy,  either  in  the  form  of  heat  or  of  kinetic  energy,  they 
may  fall  apart  into  simpler  forms  of  matter? 

This  leads  us  to  the  second  line  of  evidence;  but  before 
considering  it,  it  may  be  reiterated  that  the  behavior  of  the 
radioactive  forms  of  matter  conclusively  shows  that  bodies 
which  have  until  recently  been  classed  as  elementary  are  in 
continual  process  of  ^disintegration,"  or,  if  they  be  regarded 
as  compounds,  of  ^'decomposition/' 

2  The  second  line  of  evidence  is  dependent  on  an  exami- 
nation and  classification  of  the  spectra  of  the  fixed  stars. 
This  work  has  been  accomplished  by  Sir  Norman  Lockyer 
during  the  past  half-century.  The  arguments  for  the  view 
that  the  high  temperature  of  some  stars  is  producing  the 
disintegration  of  the  common  elements  has  been  developed 
by  Lockyer  in  his  work  entitled  ''Inorganic  Evolution. 

In  1864  Mitscherlich  showed  that  certain  compounds 
when  heated  gave  spectra  peculiar  to  themselves  and  reveal- 
ing no  trace  of  the  elements  which  they  contain.  These 
spectra  of  compounds  present  a  fluted  appearance,  the  fluting 
consisting  of  numerous  lines  arranged  in  regular  order,  and 
of  different  intensities.  Lockyer  showed  that  at  higher  tem- 
peratures  such  compounds  can  be  made  to  exhibit  the  spectra 
of  the  elements  which  they  contain,  and  the  spectra  of  the 
elements  are  characterized  by  fine  lines;  the  flutings  disap- 
pear  with  rise  of  temperature,  to  be  replaced  by  the  elemen- 

tary  line-spectra.  ,.,  ,    j  u 

The  effect  of  rise  of  temperature  on  a  solid  body,  such  as 
platinum,  is,  first,  to  produce  a  grayish-white  light;  this  is 

1:968:1 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

succeeded  by  a  dull  red,  and  we  say  that  the  solid  is  "red- 
hot."  A  higher  temperature  increases  the  amplitude  of 
vibrations,  so  that  the  substance  emits  more  light  but  it 
diminishes  the  wave-length,  so  that  the  light  emitted  grows 
yellower;  we  may  term  it  "yellow-hot."  The  next  stage  is  the 
advent  of  still  shorter  vibrations  in  the  green,  and  when 
some  blue  is  added  the  solid  is  "white-hot,"  for  the  com- 
bination of  these  colors  produces  on  our  eyes  the  effect  of 
white  light.  At  a  still  higher  temperature  violet  light  is 
emitted  in  quantity,  and  we  might  characterize  the  color  seen 
as  "blue-"  or  "violet-hot." 

Taking  these  colors  as  a  test  of  the  temperature  of  the 
stars,  Lockyer  points  out  that  it  is  reasonable  to  group  the 
stars  accordingly;  and  the  line  spectra  of  the  gases  in  the 
stars  can  then  be  allocated  to  a  qualitative  scale  of  temper- 
ature. 

It  is  possible  to  imitate  similar  conditions,  although  im- 
perfectly, with  terrestrial  means.  The  flame  is  less  hot  than 
the  arc;  the  arc  gives  a  lower  temperature  than  the  electric 
spark;  and  it  is  possible,  by  means  of  powerful  discharges, 
to  increase  considerably  the  temperature  of  the  spark.  On 
submitting  various  ordinary  elements  to  such  an  ascending 
scale  of  temperature,  Lockyer  noticed  that  certain  spec- 
trum lines  became  "enhanced," — i.e.,  appeared  stronger  and 
brighter,— while  others  diminished  in  intensity. 

On  examining  the  spectra  of  the  stars,  it  was  found  that 
the  "enhanced"  lines  of  certain  elements  were  much  more 
prominent  in  certain  stars,  and  indeed  were  uncontaminated 
with  the  ordinary  lines  of  the  elements;  these  had  vanished. 
Indeed,  all  stages  of  change  can  be  followed  in  the  stars; 
and  it  is  to  be  noted  that  as  the  temperature  of  the  star  is 
higher,  the  spectra  of  hydrogen  and  helium  appear,  along 
with  spectral  lines  at  present  not  identified  with  those  of  any 

1:9693 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

terrestrial  element.  The  appearance  of  these  unknown  lines 
is  accompanied  with  the  disappearance  of  the  spectrum  of 
the  ^'common"  elements,  calcium,  iron,  etc.  To  the  new 
spectra  Lockyer  ascribes  the  coming  into  existence  of  new 
elements,  to  which  he  gives  the  name  "proto-elements,"  re- 
garding them  as  formed  by  the  disintegration  of  those  known 
on  earth;  for  instance,  he  has  evidence  for  the  existence  of 
"proto-calcium,"  "proto-manganese,"  etc.  These  "proto- 
elemental"  spectra  in  still  hotter  stars  are  absent,  and  are 
replaced  by  the  spectra  of  helium,  oxygen,  nitrogen  and  car- 
bon,  along  with  some  unidentified  lines;  and  in  still  hotter 
regions,  when  the  spectrum  of  helium  has  disappeared,  there 
remains  a  spectrum  whose  wave-lengths  are  related  nu- 
merically to  those  of  hydrogen,  and  to  this  Lockyer  has 
given  the  name  "proto-hydrogen." 

If  Lockyer's  observations  and  explanations  are  correct, 
It  would  follow  that  with  Increase  of  temperature,  matter  as 
we  know  It  undergoes  continuous  simplification;  being  finally 
reduced  to  one  kind,  >roto-hydrogen."  Whether  this  final 
conclusion  can  be  accepted  may  be  left  for  the  present;  but 
as  regards  his  main  contention  there  appears  to  me  to  be  no 

manner  of  doubt. 

3.  We  now  pass  to  the  third  line  of  evidence.  Let  us 
consider  how  energy  may  be  applied  to  "elemental"  matter 
so  as  to  produce  disintegration. 

First,  as  regards  the  nature  and  amount  of  energy  avad- 
able  two  sources  present  themselves.  It  is  known  that  both 
the  a-particles-/.^.,  atoms  of  hellum-and  fl-particles,  or 
corpuscles-i.^.,  atoms  of  electricity  or  electrons-are  emitted 
from  radium  and  its  disintegration-products  with  enormous 
velocity.  The  usual  expression  for  the  kinetic  energy  of  a 
moving  body  is  J^  mv^  where  m  stands  for  mass  and  v  for 
velocity.    It  was  shown  by  Clerk-Maxwell,  many  years  ago, 

C970I 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

that  the  kinetic  energy  of  gaseous  molecules  could  be  thus 
calculated  in  agreement  with  experimental  results  connected 
with  their  pressure  and  temperature.  As  shown  by  Joule, 
kinetic  energy  can  be  numerically  expressed  in  heat-units;  and 
the  velocity  factor  of  kinetic  energy,  t'^,  corresponds  to  tem- 
perature. This  method  of  presentation  has  been  chosen 
here  because  the  dissociation  of  exothermic  compound  bodies 
is  always  a  function  of  temperature;  to  quote  an  instance 
already  referred  to,  ammonium  chloride  heated  to  360°  C.  is 
completely  resolved  into  hydrogen  chloride  and  ammonia; 
and  the  reverse  effect— recombination  between  these  bodies 
— occurs  when  the  temperature  Is  lowered. 

Now  the  average  velocity  of  an  atom  or  molecule  (for  In 
this  case  they  are  Identical)  of  helium  existing  as  an  ordinary 
gas  at  0°  C.  Is  known  to  be  1.037  x  10^  centimeters,  or  about 
lYs  kilometers,  or  In  English  measure  approximately  half  a 
mile,  per  second.  But  the  a-particle,  or  atom  of  helium, 
expelled  from  an  exploding  radium  atom  is  about  2x10^ 
centimeters,  or  nearly  eighty  thousand  times  as  great.  The 
squares  of  these  velocities  are  to  each  other  as  the  temper- 
atures on  the  absolute  scale;  and  as  0°  C.  corresponds  to 
273  Abs.,  we  have  the  proportion:  ( 1.3x10^)2:  (2x10^)2;: 
273  :6.^  X  10^^  degrees  Centigrade;  the  last  figure,  expressed 
in  words,  is  the  enormous  temperature  of  sixty-five  thousand 
million  degrees. 

It  is  difficult  to  evaluate  the  temperature  of  a  star;  prob- 
ably even  the  hottest  does  not  surpass  100,000°  C.  If  that 
be  so,  then  the  effective  kinetic  energy  of  an  a-particle  ex- 
ceeds that  of  gaseous  atoms  In  the  hottest  star  by  6.5  x  lo^, 
or  getting  on  to  a  million  times.  This  energy  can  be  brought 
to  bear  upon  matter  by  mixing  with  it  a  radium  salt,  or, 
better,  by  dissolving  in  a  solution  of  the  compound  to  be 
treated  some  niton;  for  from  niton  a  much  greater  number 

C97I] 


fl 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

of  helium  atoms  are  expelled  in  unit  time  than  from  even  a 
much  greater  weight  of  radium. 

The  second  available  source  of  concentrated  energy  con- 
sists in  the  utilization  of  ^-rays,  either  from  radium  or  from 
the  kathode  terminal  of  a  high-potential  current.  No  defimte 
experiments  have  been  made  with  the  former,  except  in  so 
far  as  it  has  been  shown  by  Cameron,  and  subsequently  by 
Usher,  working  in  the  laboratory  of  University  College, 
London,  that  the  available  energy  of  the  g-,  or  kathode,  rays 
from  niton  does  not  amount  to  one-fourteenth  of  that  obtain- 
able from  the  a-rays,  judging  by  their  action  in  effecting  the 
decomposition  of  water  into  hydrogen  and  oxygen.     The 
effective  energy  from  the  kathode  terminal  of  a  high-poten- 
tial current  obviously  depends  on  the  degree  of  potential, 
which  is  correlated  with  the  velocity  of  the  stream  of  the 
electrons,  as  well  as  on  the  quantity  of  the  current,  or,  in 
other  words,  the  number  of  electrons  impelled  from  the 
kathode.     In  this  latter  case  it  is  of  course  possible  to  give 
definite  direction  to  the  kathode  stream,  and  even  to  concen- 
trate it  by  the  use  of  a  spherical  or  parabolic  kathode.    Both 
of  these  methods  have  been  employed  with  apparent  success. 

( 1 )  It  has  been  found  on  four  separate  occasions  that  a 
solution  of  copper  sulphate,  exposed  to  the  action  of  niton, 
yields,  after  removal  of  the  copper  and  evaporation,  a 
residue  in  which  the  spectrum  of  lithium  was  recognized. 
Needless  to  say,  a  specimen  of  the  same  copper  sulphate, 
under  precisely  similar  conditions  except  that  no  niton  was 
added  to  it,  gave  no  trace  of  lithium;  nor  did  distilled  water 
containing   an   equal   amount   of   niton   give    any   mineral 

residue. 

( 2 )  It  has  also  been  found  that  there  is  a  continual  evolu- 
tion of  carbon  dioxide  from  a  solution  of  thorium  nitrate, 
left  to  itself  and  tested  at  Intervals  of  six  months. 

1:972] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

(3)  Experiments  on  the  action  of  niton  on  a  solution  of 
thorium  nitrate  have  resulted  In  the  production  of  carbon 
dioxide.  The  same  solution  was  treated  at  Intervals  four 
times  with  fresh  doses  of  niton,  and  the  quantity  of  carbon 
dioxide  formed  was  roughly  proportional  to  the  quantity  of 
niton  dissolved  in  it.  The  thorium  nitrate  was  finally 
proved  to  have  contained  no  compound  of  carbon. 

(4)  Other  elements  of  the  same  group,  of  which  carbon 
Is  the  member  of  lowest  atomic  weight,  viz.,  silicon  (as 
hydrogen  slllcifluorlde),  titanium  (as  titanium  sulphate), 
zirconium  (as  nitrate),  cerium  (as  sulphate),  and  lead  (as 
nitrate),  were  similarly  treated  with  niton;  all  gave  carbon 
dioxide,  with  the  exception  of  cerium;  and  the  quantity  pro- 
duced by  the  same  dose  of  niton  was  in  the  same  order  as  the 
atomic  weight  of  the  metal  treated;  silicon  giving  least  and 
thorium  most.  Lead,  however,  gave  a  relatively  small 
amount;  and  from  solutions  of  silver  and  of  mercury  (as 
nitrates)  no  carbon  dioxide  appeared  to  be  formed.  But 
from  bismuth  (as  nitrate)  a  trace  was  produced. 

( 5 )  When  water  contains  niton  in  solution,  it  decomposes 
into  oxygen  and  hydrogen.  These  gases,  formed  In  rela- 
tively large  amount,  can  be  removed  by  explosion,  and  a 
constant  small  excess  of  hydrogen  can  be  got  rid  of  by  addi- 
tion of  pure  oxygen  and  explosion.  The  excess  of  oxygen 
can  be  withdrawn  by  exposure  to  charcoal  cooled  with  liquid 
air;  the  residual  gas  consists  of  neon  mixed  with  some 
helium.  The  presence  of  neon  appears  somewhat  unac- 
countable, but  It  will  be  seen,  further  on,  that  we  have  a  clue 
to  its  production;  the  helium  is  obviously  one  of  the  disin- 
tegration products  of  the  niton. 

This  same  change  appears  to  take  place  In  certain  mineral 
springs  containing  niton;  the  gases  evolved  from  the  hot 
springs  of  Bath  in  England,  consisting  mostly  of  nitrogen, 

[973] 


*«i 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

contain  about  three-quarters  as  much  argon  as  is  normally 
present  in  atmospheric  air;  about  sixty-five  times  as  much 
helium,  and  about  one  hundred  and  eighty  times  as  much 
neon.  Hence,  too,  the  neon  evidently  arises  from  the  action 
of  dissolved  niton  on  water. 

The  action  of  kathode  rays  on  the  composition  of  matter 
has  not  as  yet  been  examined,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  except  in 
the  two  following  instances.    The  first  consisted  in  the  exam- 
ination of  the  blued  glass  of  bulbs  which  had  been  used  for 
the  production  of  X-rays.    Four  of  such  bulbs,  each  of  which 
had  served  for  medical  purposes  for  several  months,  were 
broken  up,  and  the  fragments  of  blue  glass  were  placed  m  a 
combustion-tube.     The  air  was  exhausted  and  oxygen  was 
admitted,  so  as  to  "wash  away"  all  traces  of  air  which  might 
have  conveyed  with  it  traces  of  the  gases  for  which  it  was 
prepared  to  test-helium  and  neon.     The  tube  was  finally 
exhausted  and  heated.     The  gases  evolved,  mainly  oxygen 
which  had  been  absorbed  by  the  glass,  were  pumped  off,  and 
by  the  aid  of  charcoal  cooled  with  liquid  air  all  condensable 
gases  were  removed.     There  was  a  trace  of  residual  gas, 
which  on  spectroscope  examination  proved  to  consist  mainly 
of  helium;  but   some   feeble  neon  lines  were   recognized, 
showing  the  presence  of  a  small  trace  of  neon. 

Professor  Norman  Collie  undertook  the  next  experiment. 
It  consisted  in  bombarding  with  kathode  rays  a  sample  of 
calcium  fluoride  prepared  by  the  addition  of  a  solution  of 
sodium  fluoride  to  one  of  calcium  chloride.  The  resulting 
precipitate  was  washed,  dried  and  ignited.  It  was  exposed 
for  days  to  bombardment  with  kathode  rays  from  a  power- 
ful Ruhmkorff  coil.  But  under  such  circumstances  the 
residual  gas  in  the  tube  became  absorbed,  and  in  order  to 
maintain  the  vacuum  under  suitable  conditions  for  a  kathode 
stream,  pure  oxygen  was  added  from  time  to  time.    The  first 

[974] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

portions  of  gas  were  rejected;  but  after  nearly  a  week's  bom- 
bardment about  half  a  cubic  centimeter  was  examined  by  the 
method  already  described.  On  examination  of  the  gas  re- 
maining after  absorption  of  the  oxygen,  etc.,  by  cooled 
charcoal,  the  spectrum  of  pure  neon  was  noted;  helium  w^as 
absent. 

Although  it  would  be  inadvisable  without  further  research 
to  dogmatize  on  the  results  mentioned,  it  cannot  but  be  re- 
garded as  important  that  in  the  absence  of  oxygen  the 
product  should  consist  of  helium,  while  if  oxygen  be  present 
neon  is  formed.  The  equation  0  +  He  =  Ne,  or,  in  figures, 
16  +  4  ==  20,  would  appear  to  correspond  with  the  change 
which  has  occurred.  The  formation  of  neon  during  the 
action  of  niton  on  water  would  thus  also  find  an  explanation, 
the  oxygen  being  derived  from  the  water  and  the  helium 
from  the  niton. 

We  are  merely  at  the  beginning  of  such  work.  It  will  be 
difficult,  owing  to  the  small  amounts  of  matter  altered;  but 
methods  are  being  perfected  not  only  to  deal  with  minute 
quantities  of  material,  but  to  weigh  them  with  accuracy.^ 

Let  us  now  inquire  how  electrons  may  be  supposed  to  take 
part  in  such  changes.  We  have  as  yet  no  clear  mental  picture 
of  the  structure  of  an  atom;  but  from  what  has  gone  before, 
it  appears  evident  that  certain  electrons,  in  union  with  the 
atoms  of  the  substratum  of  metals,  impart  to  them  their 
metallic  nature;  it  is  these  electrons  which  are  more  or  less 
easily  detached,  and  which  correspond  to  valency.  The  non- 
metals  appear  to  be  distinguished  by  the  possession  of 
"latent  electrons,"  which  come  into  action  during  certain 
conditions  of  combination,  and  which  also  play  the  part  of 


1  Note  added  May  23,  191 5:  Several  papers  have  since  been  published  on 
this  subject  by  Collie  and  Patterson,  by  Masson,  by  Egerton,  by  Strutt,  and  by 
Merton  in  the  "Proceedings  of  the  Royal  and  Chemical  Societies." 

1:975] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

valency.  The  former,  attached  to  metallic  substrata,  may 
be  exemplified  by  the  metal  sodium,  which  we  must  now 
agree  to  regard  as  consisting  of  a  substance  in  union  with  an 
electron;  the  latter,  by  chlorine,  which  in  the  chlorates,  per- 
chlorates,  etc.,  develops  valencies  latent  in  its  monovalent 
combinations,  of  which  sodium  chloride  is  an  example. 

Besides  these  easily  detachable  electrons,  it  is  legitimate 
to  speculate  that  whether  or  no  there  may  be  a  material 
substratum  to  the  atom,  it  contains  other  electrons,  which  by 
their  number,  their  grouping,  and  their  motion  play  a  great 
part  in  determining  its  intrinsic  and  distinguishing  properties. 

The  collision  of  an  a-particle,  or  atom  of  helium,  in  rapid 
motion,  or  of  an  electron,  with  an  atom,  may  take  place 
either  by  a  grazing  impact  or  centrally.  The  chances  in 
favor  of  a  grazing  impact  are  very  much  greater  than  those 
of  a  central  collision.  Probably  out  of  every  seventy  colli- 
sions, one  is  central;  the  others  merely  affect  what  may  be 
termed  the  "shell"  of  the  atom. 

Now  it  is  known  that  the  effect  of  a-particles  or  of  p-cor- 
puscles  on  gases  is  to  ionize  them.  Ionization  means  the 
addition  of  an  electron,  or  of  more  than  one  electron,  to  the 
atom  of  a  gas;  or  it  may  equally  mean  the  removal  of  one  or 
more  electrons  from  the  atom  of  a  gas.  In  the  former  case 
the  ion  is  termed  negative ;  in  the  latter,  positive.  Such  ions, 
however,  have  no  permanent  existence;  given  time,  they 
equalize  their  electric  charges,  or,  in  the  language  of  the 
electronic  theory,  those  having  an  electron  more  than  neces- 
sary for  the  atomic  existence  of  the  gas  pass  on  that  electron 
to  those  having  an  electron  less.  Electric  neutrality  is  thus 
reestablished,  and  the  gas  loses  its  conducting  power.  The 
action  of  an  a-  or  a  ^-particle  is,  in  short,  a  reversible  one,  if 
only  the  shell  of  the  atom  is  penetrated.  "Valency-electrons" 

[976] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

are  added  or  removed.  The  colliding  a-particles  pass 
through  a  gas  at  ordinary  pressure  for  about  seven  centi- 
meters before  the  rate  of  their  motion  is  so  diminished  that 
impact  with  atoms  no  longer  produces  an  ionizing  effect.  To 
use  well  known  and  conventional  expressions,  if  the  colliding 
atom  or  electron  becomes  slow-moving,  then  its  impact  will 
be  so  feeble  as  not  to  be  able  to  overcome  the  "affinity"  of 
the  ionic  electrons  for  the  matter  to  which  they  are  attached. 

In  the  much  rarer  cases  of  a  central  or  nearly  central  col- 
lision, the  moving  atom  of  helium  or  the  moving  electron 
penetrates  the  core  of  the  atoms  which  it  encounters;  it  must 
then  play  great  havoc  with  their  structure.  The  positions 
and  motions  of  systems  of  electrons  must  then  be  profoundly 
disturbed;  new  and  stable  rearrangements  will  occur,  and 
other  forms  of  matter  will  result.  In  other  words,  a  trans- 
mutation will  be  effected. 

It  is  as  certain  as  any  fact  can  be  that  the  loss  of  a-par- 
ticles and  of  ^-corpuscles  by  radium  and  its  products  leads  to 
the  transmutation  of  these  bodies  into  others.  They  need 
not  belong  to  the  same  chemical  family;  radium  itself,  a 
metal  of  the  barium  group,  by  the  loss  of  an  atom  of  helium 
yields  niton,  a  gas  of  the  inactive  series.  On  the  other  hand, 
if  reliance  can  be  placed  on  the  results  obtained  by  treatment 
of  members  of  the  carbon  column  with  niton,  there  is  a  ten- 
dency toward  simplification  to  lower  members  of  the  same 
column;  yet  cerium,  a  metal  generally  regarded  as  one  of 
the  carbon  group,  fails  to  yield  carbon  as  the  result  of  dis- 
aggregation; and  bismuth,  an  element  quite  free  from  any 
resemblance  to  those  of  the  niton  group,  gives  some  carbon 
on  such  treatment. 

Again,  the  formation  of  neon  by  the  exposure  of  oxygen 
and  some  other  body  (glass,  calcium  fluoride?)  to  the 
kathode  stream  opens  a  way  to  the  synthesis  of  elements.    It 

1:977] 


/ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

is  true  that  the  atomic  weight  of  neon  is  20.2,  not  20.'  But 
the  addition  of  electrons  may  account  for  the  mcrease  m 
weight.  As  some  1800  electrons  have  a  mass  equal  to  that 
of  an  atom  of  hydrogen,  the  addition  to  an  atom  o  hehum 
plus  one  of  oxygen  of  the  fifth  of  1800,  or  360  electrons 
would  give  the  necessary  increase  in  atomic  weight,  and  such 
an  addition  does  not  seem  impossible. 

Nothing  has  been  said  regarding  the  periodic  table  in 
what  has  preceded,  except  to  indicate  that  transformation 
does  not  always  take  place  from  the  members  of  any  one  col- 
umn  to  those  of  lower  atomic  weight  in  the  same  column; 
and  it  would  at  present  be  premature  to  speculate  as  to  the 
ancestry  or  progeny  of  the  elements.     But  as  a_  working 
hypothesis  it  may  be  conjectured  that  while  the  existence  of 
compounds  between  what  we  generally  term  elements  con- 
sists in  the  juxtaposition  of  their  atoms  in  such  a  fashion  that 
the  electrons  of  the  "valency"  order  belonging  to  the  com- 
bining atoms,  which  appear  to  be  attached  to  the  surface  of 
the  combining  atoms,  or  which  at  least  are  easily  removed, 
serve  as  "bonds"  of  union,  the  elements  themselves  are  pro- 
duced by  the  interaction  of  deeper-lying  electrons.    In  fact, 
when  one  atom  interpenetrates  another,  so  that  the  deeper- 
lying  electrons  of  one  element  influence  those  of  another, 
what  has  been  termed  "transmutation"  occurs.     Or,  con- 
versely, an  element  of  relatively  high  atomic  weight  may  be 
induced  to  split  into  two  or  more  "elementary"  forms  of 
matter;  and  it  would  appear  probable  that  in  order  to  pro- 
duce such  a  fission  the  absorption  and  assimilation  of  a  cer- 
tain number  of  electrons  is  essential;  or  it  may  be  the  loss  of 
some  attached  electrons.    The  latter  alternative  is  certainly 
in  operation  when  radioactive  bodies  disintegrate. 

1  V  ,.  ,^:i,A  \Uv  2%  lois:  Ashton  has  brought  forward  some  evidence  for 
,h:  suTposi.i^n  'h':.^  tu'e'r^a^e  two  neons,  the  atomic  weigh,  of  one  be.ng  .o, 
and  of  the  other,  20.2. 

1:978] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

We  are  still  In  the  dark  as  regards  what  happens  when  a 
radioactive  element  undergoes  change  with  no  expulsion  of 
an  a-particle.  A  specific  instance  is  the  change  of  radium  D 
into  radiums  E^  and  Eg,  and  of  the  latter  into  radium  F,  or 
polonium.  Here  there  Is  no  helium  atom  lost;  but  ^-rays,  or 
electrons,  are  emitted  at  each  stage.  These  have  mass;  hence 
the  atomic  weight  of  polonium  should  be  somewhat  lower 
than  that  of  radium  D.  These  two  products  of  the  disin- 
tegration of  niton  are  at  present  being  investigated  at  Uni- 
versity College,  London;  and  it  may  be  said  at  once  that 
their  reactions  are  quite  distinct,  and  that  they  can  be  sepa- 
rated from  each  other  with  the  same  ease  as,  say,  arsenic  can 
be  separated  from  zinc.  Further  research  will  show  whether 
their  atomic  weights  are  identical,  or  whether  they  differ  by  a 
small  quantity,  as,  for  example,  the  atomic  w^elght  of  nickel 
differs  from  that  of  cobalt. 

Attempts  have  been  made,  although  with  no  definite  re- 
sults, to  determine  whether  an  "allotropic  change" — e.g.^ 
that  of  ozone  into  oxygen,  or  that  of  red  Into  yellow  phos- 
phorus—is attended  by  the  gain  or  expulsion  of  electrons. 
But  it  must  be  remembered  that  the  usual  test  for  electrons 
depends  on  the  ionization  of  air  by  rapidly  moving  electrons, 
and  that  It  Is  difficult  to  recognize  electrons  unless  they  are 
In  rapid  motion.  It  is  true  that  an  electric  charge  can  be 
tested  for  and  measured;  but  the  existence  of  an  electric 
charge  Is  no  proof  that  what  may  be  termed  "elemental  elec- 
trons" have  been  gained  or  lost;  the  charge  may  be  due  to 
the  gain  or  loss  or  the  transference  of  "valency-electrons." 
It  has  thus  not  been  shown  that  allotropy  is  due  to  gain  or 
loss  of  elemental  electrons;  In  all  probability  it  is  not,  but  to 
the  familiar  rearrangement  of  the  atoms  of  a  compound,  for 
which  we  generally  use  the  term  "isomerism." 

Enough  has  now  been  said  to  show  the  nature  of  the  prob- 

[;979] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

iems  which  await  solution.  Progress  must  of  necessity  be 
slow;  but  methods  of  micro-analysis  have  now  been  much 
improved,  and  the  microbalance  affords  a  means  whereby 
quantities  of  matter  of  the  small  order  which  must  be  han- 
dled can  readily  be  weighed.  The  field  is  ripe  unto  the  bar- 
vest,  but  as  yet  the  laborers  are  few. 

William  Ramsay. 


t 


[9803 


^t^. 


THE  CORPUSCULAR  THEORY  OF 
AURORA  BOREALIS* 

TN  the  following  pages  I  shall  have  the  honor  to  give  a 
X  resume  of  my  researches  on  aurora  borealis,  begun  in 
the  year  1904  and  continued  up  to  the  present  time.  Most 
of  the  results  have  been  published  in  "  Videnskabsselskabets 
Skrifter,"  f  Christiania,  and  in  the  "  Archives  des  Sciences 
Physiques  et  Naturelles,"  f  Geneva. 

I .    Introduction. 

It  seems  to  be  Goldstein  who  has  the  priority  in  the  idea 
that  the  sun  sends  out  into  space  electrical  rays  analogous  to 
cathode-rays,  and  that  this  may  explain  the  mysterious  con- 
nection between  variations  in  solar  activity  and  correspond- 
mg  fluctuations  in  the  magnetic  and  electric  phenomena  on 
the  earth.  This  idea  was  published  in  "Wiedemann's 
Annalen  "  in  1881,  in  a  paper  entitled  "  Ueber  die  Entladung 
der  Electricitat  in  verdunnten  Gasen."  § 

Some  time  later,  the  Danish  meteorologist,  Adam  Paulsen, 
was  led,  from  his  observations  of  aurora  in  Greenland,  to  the 

*  A  lecture  presented  at  the  inauguration  of  the  Rice  Institute,  by  Carl  Stirmer 
Professor  of  Pure  Mathematics  at  the  University  of  Christiania.  ^         ' 

l'actiorH',t'"°'"'T-K '^'""  P°'?,S">""'^'  PO"-"-'  "ne  charge  d'electricite  sous 
1  action  d  un  a.mant  elementa.re,"  /...,  ,904,  and  "Bericht  iiber  eine  Expedition 

Nordli^S™:"  i*7;    ,;,';':°'°'"'''''"'"  ^"'"^'"^  "°'  Hohen^essungen  von 

^L"^^'  '"  *"J^"°'f«^  ^^^  corpuscules  electrises  dans  I'espace  sous  Taction du 
magnetisme   terrestre,   avec   application   aux  aurores   boreales,"  etc.,  U.,   1907. 

litt  n}!r°r    '"^T''^'  '•'•'  '9"  ^""^  '912.    In  the  second  memoir  I  have  given  a 
S  ..«7-  ^^"'y-^"":  P^P"s  that  I  have  published  on  auroras  up  to  the  year  1912 
§    Wiedemann's  Annalen,"  Vol.  XII,  1881,  p.  266.  v  y        '^  2. 

[:98i3 


\ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

hypothesis  *  that  aurora  was  due  to  cathode-rays ;  but 
instead  of  assuming  that  these  rays  came  from  the  sun,  he 
thought  they  had  their  origin  in  the  upper  atmosphere. 

Then,  in  1896,  came  Professor  Kr.  Birkeland's  experiments 
on  what  he  called  "  the  suction  t  of  cathode-rays  towards  a 
magnetic  pole."  He  found  that  a  magnetic  pole  had  an 
effect  upon  a  beam  of  parallel  cathode-rays  analogous  to 
that  of  a  lens  upon  a  beam  of  light,  namely,  to  make  them 
converge  toward  a  point.  J  This  phenomenon  led  him,  in- 
dependently of  Goldstein,  to  the  idea  that  aurora  was  due 
to  a  similar  effect  of  the  earth's  magnetism  on  cathode-rays 
coming  from  the  sun,  especially  from  the  sun-spots. 

To  test  this  hypothesis.  Professor  Birkeland  exposed  a  little 
spherical  electromagnet  to  a  stream  of  cathode-rays,  and 
found  a  series  of  analogies  to  the  shape  and  nature  of  the 
aurora.  The  auroral  belts  in  particular  were  very  beauti- 
fully produced.  These  remarkable  experiments,  which  gave 
the  first  really  good  support  to  the  corpuscular  theory  of 
aurora,  were  described  in  the  paper  on  his  aurora  expedition 
of  1 899-1900  ;§  but  the  photographs  were  not  published 
until  1907.11 

Figs.  I  and  2  show  these  artificial  auroral  belts  round  the 
polar  regions  of  the  little  magnetic  sphere  in  Professor 
Birkeland's  experiments. 

Notwithstanding  that  these  remarkable  experiments  tend 
to  show  that  aurora  is  a  direct  effect  of  the  precipitation  of 

*  Adam  Paulsen,  "Sur  la  nature  et  I'origine  de  I'aurore  boreale,"  Copenhagen, 

1894. 

t  His  expression  is  very  badly  chosen;  in  fact,  the  magnetism  has  no  attraction 
on  cathode  corpuscles,  but  only  a  deviating  action,  as  is  well  known. 

X  "Archives  des  Sciences  Physiques  et  Naturelles,"  Geneva,  4  periode,  Vol.  I, 

p.  497. 

§  "Videnskabsselskabets  Skrifter,"  Christiania,  1901. 

II  Professor  Birkeland  allowed  me  to  publish  some  of  these  photographs  in  my 
paper,  "Sar  les  trajectoires  des  corpuscules,"  etc..  I.e. 

[9823 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

cathode-rays  in  the  upper  atmosphere.  Professor  Birkeland 
considered  aurora  more  as  a  secondary  phenomenon  *  due  to 
secondary  rays  from  great  electric  currents  in  the  upper  air; 
but  he  also  admitted  the  existence  of  a  direct  action.f 

In  the  mean  time  Arrhenius  %  published  his  hypothesis 
that  the  sun  was  sending  out  small  electrified  particles  from 
about  one  ten-thousandth  to  one  thousandth  of  a  milli- 
meter in  diameter,  and  that  these  particles  were  pushed  away 
from  the  sun  by  the  pressure  of  the  light,  and  on  reaching 
the  earth's  atmosphere  caused  aurora. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  year  1903  I  was  becoming  extremely 
interested  in  Professor  Birkeland's  experiments  and  theory 
of  aurora,  and  knowing  that  the  phenomenon  of  the  con- 
centration of  cathode-rays  toward  a  single  pole  had  been 
mathematically  treated  by  Poincare,§  I  thought  it  might 
be  interesting  to  find  out  mathematically  the  trajectories  of 
electrified  corpuscles  in  the  magnetic  field  of  the  earth,  and 
hoped  in  this  way  to  find  again,  not  only  the  details  of 
Professor  Birkeland's  experiments,  but  also  the  principal 
features  of  aurora  and  of  the  magnetic  storms.  My  first 
results  were  then  published  in  "  Videnskabsselskabets 
Skrifter  "  in  1904.  H 

The  work  has  been  since  continued,  and  in  1907  the  first 
detailed  report  was  published  in  "Archives  des  Sciences 
Physiques  et  Naturelles,"  Geneva. 

In  the  following  paragraphs  we  will  give  a  short  account 
of  those  results. 


*  << 


Expedition  Norvegienne  de  1899-1900  pour  I'etude  des  aurores  boreales." 
pp.  60-74. 

t  Ibid.,  p.  74. 

t  "Ofversigt  af  Kongl.  Vetenskaps-Akademiens  F6rhandHngar,"  1900;  Stock- 
holm. 


§  *'  Comptes  Rendus,"  Paris,  Vol.  CXXIII,  p.  930,  1896. 
II  "  Sur  le  mouvement  d'un  point,"  etc.,  I.e. 


»li 


'I 


til 


1:983: 


I 


♦ 


14, 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

2.    Simplifying  hypothesis  for  the  mathematical  treatment. 

Starting  with  the  hypothesis  that  the  sun  is  sending 
out  electrical  corpuscles  towards  the  earth,  the  mathe- 
matical problem  to  find  the  trajectories  of  those  corpus- 
cles is  an  extremely  difficult  one  to  solve  in  its  most  general 
form. 

As  I  pointed  out  in  my  Geneva  paper,  the  natural  way 
to  proceed  should  be  this  :  first,  to  try  to  solve  the  problem 
in  a  series  of  simplifying  hypotheses,  and  after  that  to  treat 
the  cases  in  which  these  simplifying  hypotheses  are 
abandoned,  one  after  another,  in  order  to  get  the  real 
conditions  of  nature. 

As  simplifying  hypotheses  I  chose,  in  my  Geneva  paper, 
the  following : 

I.  The  motions  of  the  earth  and  of  the  sun  are  considered 
as  negligibles,  so  that  only  their  relative  positions  come  into 
consideration  ;  in  fact,  the  speed  of  the  electrified  corpuscles 
considered  is  supposed  to  be  so  great  that  this  relative  posi- 
tion does  not  sensibly  change  during  the  time  a  corpuscle 
takes  to  go  from  the  sun  to  the  earth. 

II.  We  assume  that  the  corpuscles  are  not  aflFected  by 
other  forces  than  the  earth's  magnetism,  and 

III.  That  they  follow  the  laws  observed  for  the  motion 
of  a  cathode-particle  in  a  stationary  magnetic  field. 

IV.  As  regards  the  earth's  magnetism,  we  consider  it,  in 
accordance  with  Gauss's  hypothesis,  as  due  exclusively  to 
magnetic  masses  in  the  interior  of  the  earth,  so  that  we  have 
the  known  expansion  of  the  magnetic  potential  outside  the 
earth  in  a  series  of  spherical  harmonics. 

V.  In  the  mathematical  analysis  we  use  only  the  first 
term  of  the  series  for  the  potential,  which  means  that  we 
consider  the  earth's   magnetic  field    as  a  field  due   to   an 

1:9843 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

elementary  magnet  placed  in  the  center  of  the  earth  with 
its  axis  coinciding  with  the  magnetic  axis  of  the  latter. 

Under  the  above-mentioned  hypothesis,  this  approxima- 
tion will  hold  good  at  great  distances  from  the  earth,  because 
the  other  terms  of  the  potential  expansion  containing  higher 

R 

powers  of  —  will  be  negligible  as  compared  with  the  first 

T 

term.      (Here   R  is   the   radius  of  earth,   and   r  the   radius 
vector.) 

The  problem  is  thus  reduced  to  a  study  of  the  trajectories 
of  electrified  corpuscles  in  the  field  of  an  elementary  magnet. 
When  this  problem  has  been  solved,  we  may  successively 
have  to  take  into  account  the  following  more  general  prob- 
lems : 

As  regards  hypothesis  I :  To  take  into  account  the  motion 
of  the  earth  and  of  the  sun  during  the  motion  of  the  cor- 
puscles. 

As  regards  hypothesis  II :  To  take  into  account  the  possible 
electromagnetic  fields  surrounding  the  celestial  bodies, 
especially  the  sun.  Further,  other  forces  that  may  act  on 
the  corpuscles,  such  as  gravitation  and  the  pressure  of  light 
in  Arrhenius's  theory. 

As  regards  hypotheses  III  and  IF:  To  take  into  account 
the  reciprocal  electromagnetic  action  between  the  corpuscles 
when  their  number  is  considerable.  Each  corpuscle  carries 
with  it  an  electromagnetic  field,  and  the  changes  in  these 
fields  are  transmitted  through  space  with  the  velocity  of  light. 
Especially,  to  take  into  account  the  magnetic  field  outside 
the  earth  produced  by  currents  of  corpuscles  when  their 
number  is  considerable,  as  probably  during  magnetic  storms. 

As  regards  hypothesis  V :  To  take  into  account  the  real 
Gaussian  expression  for  the  magnetic  field  with  all  the  terms 
hitherto  considered. 

C985: 


1 


I, 


w 


■  y 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

There  are,  as  will  be  seen,  enough  difficult  problems  to 
solve  even  when  the  first  one,  corresponding  to  hypotheses 
I-V,  is  completely  cleared  up.  It  is  a  promising  circum- 
stance that  the  solution  of  this  first  problem  in  itself  gives  a 
good  explanation  of  a  series  of  the  principal  features  of  the 
phenomena  of  auroras  and  magnetic  storms. 


1:9863 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


MATHEMATICAL    DISCUSSION    OF    THE    MOTION    OF    A     COR- 
PUSCLE   IN   THE    FIELD    OF    AN 
ELEMENTARY   MAGNET 

3.  Differential  equations  of  the  trajectory  in  the  case  of  an 
elementary  magnet. 

We  will  now  study  the  trajectories  of  electrified  corpuscles 
in  the  field  of  an  elementary  magnet. 

We  take  as  unit  a  length  c  centimeters,  where  c  is  given 
by  the  relation 

a 

Here  M  is  the  moment  of  the  elementary  magnet,  and  ^  is  a 

constant  characteristic  of  the  corpuscle  in  motion.     Let  us, 

for  instance,  consider  a  point  in  the  trajectory  where  the 

tangent  is  at  right  angles  to  the  magnetic  force  ;  let  us  denote 

with  p  the  radius  of  curvature  in  centimeters  at  that  point, 

and  presume  that  the  magnetic  force  is  equal  to  H  magnetic 

units ;   then 

a  =  lip. 

If  we  put  the  elementary  magnet  at  the  origin  of  a  rectangular 
Cartesian  system  of  coordinates  OXYZ  (see  Fig.  3),  with  its 
axis  coinciding  with  the  Z-axis,  and  its  south  pole  towards 
the  positive  z,  then  the  components  of  the  magnetic  force  * 
at  a  point  (a;,  y,  z)  will,  by  definition,  be  the  partial  deriva- 
tives of  the  function 

r 

*  That  is,  the  force  acting  on  a  unit  of  north  magnetism. 

1:9873 


'^ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

With  the  adopted  unit  of  length,  the  diflFerential  equations 
of  the  trajectory  *  for  a  negatively  charged  corpuscle  will  be 


f^ 


ds' 
ds' 


dz     f^   o       <>\dy 
/     o       o\  ax      _      u/Zt 

=  (32"-Ot--3^^-t: 


ds 


ds 


dH  dy  dx 

—  =  3  xz-f—  3  yz 


ds 


ds 


ds 


(I) 


where  r-  =  ;c2  +  y^  4-  s'  and  where  we  have  taken  as  inde- 
pendent variable  the  arc  s  of  the  trajectory. 

For  a  positively  charged  corpuscle,  the  signs  of  the  second 
members  of  the  equations  have  to  be  reversed  ;  but  the  same 
effect  is  obtained  by  changing  x  into  -  x,  that  is,  by  changing 
the  positive  direction  of  the  Z-axis.  Hence  the  trajectories 
of  positive  corpuscles  will,  for  the  same  value  of  Hp,  be  sym- 
metrical with  the  trajectories  of  negative  corpuscles  relatively 
to  a  plane  through  the  Z-axis.  It  is  of  course  sufficient  to 
study  the  latter  trajectories. 

By  introducing  polar  coordinates  R  and  </>,  defined  by  the 
equations  (see  Fig.  4) 

X  =  R  cos  0,     y  =  R  sin  <^, 

we  obtain  from  the  two  first  equations 

d(n,dc}>\_     ^Rhdz     r'-^z'j^dR 
ds\     ds)  r'    ds  r"  ds' 

where  the  second  member  is  the  exact  derivative  of  the 
function  i?V"^ ;   in  integrating  we  thus  obtain 


ds  r 

*  See  my  Geneva  paper  of  1907. 

[;98B] 


(2) 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

where  7  is  a  constant  of  integration.  If  we  eliminate  0  by 
means  of  this  equation,  and  call  Q  the  following  function  of 
R  and  z, 

"27 


I  — 


LR 


+  4 


we  get  the  very  simple  system  for  R  and  z  as  functions  of  s : 


d'R  ^  I  8Q 
ds'     2dR' 

dh^i8Q 
ds'     2  8z ' 

fdR\ 

\dsJ 


ui  -"'^- 


(3) 


=  Q^ 


The  problem  is  thus  reduced  to  the  integration  of  this 
system,  which  can  be  done  by  integrating  a  differential 
equation  of  the  second  order  followed  by  a  quadrature. 
After  that  </>  will  be  found  by  a  new  quadrature. 

But  even  without  integrating  the  differential  equations  it 
is  possible,  as  will  be  shown,  to  draw  very  interesting  con- 
clusions directly  from  the  equations,  and  further,  by  the 
powerful  methods  of  numerical  integration,  to  calculate 
trajectories  with  any  accuracy  desired. 

4.  Formula  for  sin  d.  Part  of  space  beyond  which  the 
trajectory  cannot  go. 

From  formula  (2)  we  obtain  a  very  interesting  geometrical 
property  of  the  trajectory;  if  we  call  the  angle  between  the 
tangent  in  the  direction  of  motion  and  a  plane  passing 
through  the  point  of  contact  and  the  Z-axis  6,  then 


sin  d  = 


Rd<t> 


ds  ' 
1:989] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

and  equation  (2)  then  gives 


sin  6  =  -77-  '  "^' 
R      r 


(4) 


By  this  equation  the  angle  B  can  be  found  for  each  point  of 
the  trajectory;  and  B  will  be  positive  or  negative  according 
as  the  motion  along  the  trajectory  has  the  same  direction  as 
the  positive  direction  of  the  angle  </>  or  the  opposite.     (See 

Fig.  5.) 

From  formula  (4)   many  interestmg  conclusions  may  be 

drawn.  For  instance,  in  the  region  where  2  7^?"^  +  Rr~^  is 
positive,  B  will  be  positive  and  the  angle  </>  will  be  constantly 
increasing;    and   where   the   expression   is   negative,  </>  will 

decrease. 

On  the  other  hand,  along  a  trajectory  0  can  only  reach  its 
maximum  or  its  minimum  in  the  points  of  intersection  with 
the  surface 

27  .  R 


R 


+  -^  =  o- 


This  surface,  which  only  exists  for  negative  values  of  the 
constant  7,  is  a  surface  of  revolution  obtained  by  rotating 
a  line  of  magnetic  force  around  the  Z-axis. 

For  a  given  trajectory,  the  corresponding  value  of  the 
constant  7  can  be  found  by  equation  (4)  by  substituting  for 
a  given  point  the  values  of  R,  r  and  sin  (9,  which  immediately 

give  7. 

But  the  most  valuable  consequence  of  relation  4  is  the  fol- 
lowing : 

Along  a  trajectory,  sin  B  cannot  be  less  than  —  i,  nor 
greater  than  +  i  ;  the  trajectory  must  of  course  be  con- 
fined to  the  region  in  space  where 

—  K  -^  +  —  < 


+  -,<  +  !. 


R 

1:990] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

We  will  call  this  region  ^7.  To  each  value  of  7  we  obtain 
a  corresponding  ^7  and  no  trajectory  corresponding  to  the 
same  value  of  the  constant  7  can  get  beyond  this  region  (37. 
To  find  Q^  we  may  proceed  in  the  following  way :  Put 
sin  0  =  y^  and  R  =  r  cos  ip ;  then  the  intersection  between 
the  surface  of  revolution  where  sin  B  =  k  and  a  plane 
through  the  Z-axis  will  be  a  curve  w^hose  equation  in  polar 
coordinates  found  by  (4)  is 


kr"^  cos  \l/  —  2  yr  —  cos^  \[/  =  O. 


(5) 


If  we  then  let  k  vary  between  —  i  and  +  i,  this  curve 
describes  in  the  above-mentioned  plane  a  region  which  we 
will  call  qy.  In  rotating  this  region  around  the  Z-axis,  we 
then  obtain  the  region  Qy. 

The  detailed  discussion  of  the  curves  (5)  will  be  found  in 
my  Geneva  paper,  as  also  the  discussion  of  the  parts  Qy  for 
all  values  of  7  between  —  00  and  +  00. 

We  will  here  only  give  six  characteristic  forms  of  qy  and 
Qy  corresponding  to 

7  =   —  1. 016 

7  =  -  0.97 

7  =  -  0.5 

y  =  -  0.05 

7  =       0.03 

7  =       0.2 

In  the  upper  row  of  Plate  I  we  see  the  shapes  of  the  regions 
qy  white,  the  other  parts  of  the  plane  being  black.  The 
origin  is  in  the  middle,  and  the  dotted  lines  are  the  lines  of 

K 

Hp 

is  equal  to  the  largest  diameter  of  the  dotted  oval  correspond- 
ing to  7  =  —  0.5. 

1:991] 


magnetic  force,  where  sin^  =  o.     The  unit  of  length  \ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

and  equation  (2)  then  gives 

sin  6  =  —pr-T  -:;. 

R      r 


(4) 


By  this  equation  the  angle  B  can  be  found  for  each  point  of 
the  trajectory;  and  d  will  be  positive  or  negative  according 
as  the  motion  along  the  trajectory  has  the  same  direction  as 
the  positive  direction  of  the  angle  0  or  the  opposite.     (See 

Fig-  5.)  .  ^     .  , 

From  formula  (4)  many  interestmg  conclusions  may ^  be 

drawn.     For  instance,  in  the  region  where  2  yR'  -^  Rr  ^  is 

positive,  d  will  be  positive  and  the  angle  </>  will  be  constantly 

increasing;    and  where   the  expression   is   negative,  (^  will 

decrease. 

On  the  other  hand,  along  a  trajectory  <j>  can  only  reach  its 
maximum  or  its  minimum  in  the  points  of  intersection  with 
the  surface 


27 
R 


+  4=0. 


This  surface,  which  only  exists  for  negative  values  of  the 
constant  7,  is  a  surface  of  revolution  obtained  by  rotating 
a  line  of  magnetic  force  around  the  Z-axis. 

For  a  given  trajectory,  the  corresponding  value  of  the 
constant  7  can  be  found  by  equation  (4)  by  substituting  for 
a  given  point  the  values  of  R,  r  and  sin  6,  which  immediately 

give  7. 

But  the  most  valuable  consequence  of  relation  4  is  the  fol- 
lowing : 

Along  a  trajectory,  sin  6  cannot  be  less  than  -  i,  nor 
greater  than  +  i  ;  the  trajectory  must  of  course  be  con- 
fined to  the  region  in  space  where 

R      r 
[990] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

We  will  call  this  region  Qy.  To  each  value  of  7  we  obtain 
a  corresponding  Qy  and  no  trajectory  corresponding  to  the 
same  value  of  the  constant  7  can  get  beyond  this  region  Qy. 
To  find  Qy  we  may  proceed  in  the  following  way  :  Put 
sin  ^  =  ^  and  R  =  r  cos  xp ',  then  the  intersection  between 
the  surface  of  revolution  where  sin  6  =  k  and  a  plane 
through  the  Z-axis  will  be  a  curve  w^hose  equation  in  polar 
coordinates  found  by  (4)  is 


kr"^  cos  yj/  —  2  yr  —  cos^  rp  =  O. 


(5) 


If  we  then  let  k  vary  between  -  i  and  +  i,  this  curve 
describes  in  the  above-mentioned  plane  a  region  which  we 
will  call  qy.  In  rotating  this  region  around  the  Z-axis,  we 
then  obtain  the  region  Qy. 

The  detailed  discussion  of  the  curves  (5)  will  be  found  in 
my  Geneva  paper,  as  also  the  discussion  of  the  parts  Qy  for 
all  values  of  7  between  —  00  and  -|-  00. 

We  will  here  only  give  six  characteristic  forms  of  qy  and 
Qy  corresponding  to 

7  =    —  1. 016 

7  =  -  0.97 

y  =  -  0.5 

7  =  -  0.05 

7  =        0.03 

7  =         0.2 

In  the  upper  row  of  Plate  I  we  see  the  shapes  of  the  regions 
qy  white,  the  other  parts  of  the  plane  being  black.  The 
origin  is  in  the  middle,  and  the  dotted  lines  are  the  lines  of 

K 

Hp 

is  equal  to  the  largest  diameter  of  the  dotted  oval  correspond- 
ing to  7  =  —  0.5. 

[990 


magnetic  force,  where  sin  ^  =  o.     The  unit  of  length  \/ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

In  the  lower  row  are  seen  the  corresponding  regions  Q^  in 
space,  described  by  the  parts  q^  when  rotated  about  the 
Z-axis. 

We  find  especially  that  the  regions  Q^  is  open  from  the 
origin  to  infinite  distance  only  if 

-   I    <  7  <.  O. 

This,  as  we  shall  see,  will  have  important  consequences  in  its 
application  to  aurora. 

5.  Mechanical  interpretation  of  system  (3)  and  results  for 
the  discussion  of  the  trajectories. 

Still  more  useful  information  concerning  the  trajectories 
is  obtained  if  we  interpret  system  (3)  mechanically;  in  fact, 
if  we  consider  s  as  the  time  and  R  and  z  as  the  Cartesian 
coordinates  of  a  material  point  p  in  a  plane,  then  system  (3) 
defines  the  motion  of  that  point  under  the  action  of  a  force 
derived  from  the  function  of  force  J  Q,  As  such  a  plane  we 
may  choose  an  arbitrary  fixed  plane  ORZ  through  the  Z-axis. 
Further,  let  P  be  a  moving  point  on  the  trajectory,  and  let 
us  lay  a  circle  through  P  parallel  to  the  ZF-plane,  and  with 
its  center  on  the  Z-axis.  Then  p  will  be  the  point  of  inter- 
section between  this  circle  and  the  plane  ORZ;  and  when 
the  point  P  is  moving  with  constant  velocity  along  the  tra- 
jectory r,  the  corresponding  point  p  is  moving  in  the  plane 
ORZ  according  to  the  above-mentioned  mechanical  law, 
and  will  describe  a  certain  plane  curve  K. 

When  we  know  the  shape  of  the  curve  K,  the  shape  of  the 
corresponding  trajectory  in  space  is  easy  to  find  by  the 
formula  for  sin  d. 

To  each  curve  K  there  are  In  general  two  corresponding 
sets  of  trajectories,  each  containing  all  trajectories  that  can 
be  obtained  from  one  of  them  by  rotation  around  the  Z-axis  ; 

[9923 


i'4 


}  I 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

the  first  set  corresponds  to  a  motion  along  K  in  one  direction, 
the  second  to  a  motion  in  the  opposite  direction,  and  the  two 
sets  are  symmetrical  with  one  another  with  reference  to  the 
^Z-plane. 

Now  the  study  of  the  curves  K  is  comparatively  easy  when 
the  level-lines 

Q  =  h 

are  drawn  for  a  series  of  equidistant  values  of  the  constant  h. 
These  lines  are  identical  with  the  lines  (5),  where 
^  =  ±  Vi  -  h,  as  we  see  by  substituting  the  value  of  the 
function  Q.  Of  course  these  level-lines  are  situated  ex- 
clusively in  the  plane  region  before  called  q^,  and  the 
boundaries  of  that  region  are  formed  by  the  level-lines 


Q 


o. 


The  line  of  force  ^  =  o  is  identical  with  the  level-line  Q  =  1, 
I  have  drawn  such  level-lines  corresponding  to  equidistant 
values  of  h  with  interval  o.i  for  a  series  of  characteristic 
values  of  the  constant  of  integration  7,  and  in  order  to 
facilitate   the  mechanical   Interpretation,   have  colored   the 

parts  between  successive  level-lines  with  graduated  tints 

white  nearest  the  lines  0  =  i,  and  dark  nearest  the  line 
Q  =  o.  On  Plates  II  to  XIX  are  seen  the  fields  of  force 
thus  constructed  for  7  equal  to    -  1.2,    -  1.016,     -  i.ooi, 

-  0.999,  ~  0.97,   -  0.9,   -  0.8,   -  0.7,   -  0.6,  -  0.5,   -0.4' 

—  0.3,  —  0.2,  —  0.1,  — o.oi,  o,  o.oi,  and  o.i  respectively; 
on  Plate  XX  Is  also  seen  the  Inner  part  of  the  field  of  force 
for  7  =   -  0.5  on  a  scale  ten  times  as  great. 

The  force  acting  on  p  will  then  always  be  directed  normally 
to  the  level-lines  and  toward  the  lighter  parts,  and  the 
strength  of  the  force  will  be  approximately  inversely  pro- 
portional to  the  breadth  of  the  spaces  between  two  con- 
secutive level-lines. 

1:9933 


i^ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

A  very  intuitive  idea  is  already  obtained  about  the  curves 
K  if  we  consider  the  point  p  a.s  a.  small  sphere  rolling  without 
friction  in  a  landscape  where  the  level-lines  indicate  the  shape 
as  on  geographical  charts,  the  valleys  being  light  and  the 
higher  parts  darker.  The  analogy  is  not  complete,  but  gives 
nevertheless  a  fair  idea  of  the  form  of  the  curves  K, 

6.  The  methods  of  graphical  and  numerical  integration 
applied  to  the  study  of  the  curves  K  and  the  trajectories  in  space. 

The  above-mentioned  methods  are  excellent  for  the  quali- 
tative discussion  of  the  trajectories.  For  the  quantitative 
investigation,  however,  they  are  not  sufficient,  and  it  is  then 
necessary  to  use  methods  of  graphical  and  numerical  integra- 
tion, the  first  when  no  very  great  accuracy  is  required,  the 
second  in  those  cases  in  which  the  greatest  possible  accuracy 
is  necessary. 

The  method  of  graphical  integration  that  I  have  employed 
is  described  in  a  paper*  published  in  1908.  It  is  based  on  a 
further  development  of  an  idea  of  Lord  Kelvin's,  and  sup- 
poses the  level-lines  Q  =  h  to  h^  drawn ;  the  radius  of 
curvature  can  then  be  approximately  found  by  a  very  simple 
construction. 

The  method  of  numerical  integration  is  by  far  the  more 
accurate.  It  has  been  described  in  detail  in  my  Geneva 
paper  of  1907,  and  is  analogous  to  the  methods  used  in 
astronomy  for  calculating  orbits.  In  the  first  place  an 
integral  curve  K  of  system  (3)  has  been  computed  and  then 
the  corresponding  trajectory  in  space  has  been  found  by 
numerical  quadrature.  The  computation  has  been  made 
throughout  to  six  places  of  decimals,  and  has  been   most 


*  On  the   graphic  solution    of   dynamical    problems. 
Skrifter,"  Math,  naturv.  Kl.  1908;  Christiania.) 

1:994] 


( "  Videnskabsselskabets 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

tedious  and  elaborate.  A  computer  with  enough  practice 
can  calculate  only  about  3  points  of  a  trajectory  in  an  hour. 

My  assistants  and  myself  have  used  this  method  of 
numerical  integration  for  some  years,  and  have  computed 
more  than  120  different  branches  of  trajectories,  a  labor  of 
more  than  5000  hours.  But  these  computations  have  been 
of  the  greatest  importance  in  the  applications,  and  at  the  same 
time  a  most  interesting  test  of  the  theoretical  develop- 
ment, and  have  given  very  suggestive  ideas. 

The  detailed  .computations  have  not  yet  been  published,* 
only  figures  and  wire  models  of  the  trajectories. 

7.  First  general  view  of  the  trajectories  corresponding  to  a 
wire  model  constructed  by  graphical  integration, 

^  Space  does  not  permit  us  to  give  here  a  detailed  descrip- 
tion of  the  trajectories ;  we  can  only  point  out  some  general 
characteristics. 

We  will  begin  by  showing  a  picture  of  a  wire  model  con- 
structed by  graphical  integration,  published  f  in  my  lecture 
held  at  the  International  Congress  of  Mathematics  in  Rome, 
in  1908. 

Here  the  elementary  magnet  is  placed  in  the  center  of  the 
sphere,  and  the  Z-axis  is  normal  to  the  plane  of  the  model,  i.e. 
parallel  to  the  dark  supporting  rods.  The  white  wires 
represent  trajectories  of  corpuscles  coming  from  the  square 
plate  at  the  right.  Our  unit  of  length  is  equal  to  the  radius 
of  the  circular  trajectory  round  the  sphere,  and  the  ZF-plane 
is  the  plane  of  that  circle.  In  the  XF-plane  are  also  rep- 
resented   the   particular   trajectories   lying   in    that   plane, 

*  The  computations  have  meanwhile  been  published  in  "  VIdenskabsselskabets 
bkrifter,  '  1913  and  1914,  Christiania.     (Remark  during  the  correction  of  proofs.) 
t  See  my  Geneva  paper  of  1907,  §  20. 

1:9953 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

trajectories  calculated  by  elliptic  integrals,  i.e,  exactly;* 
they  are  a  good  check  on  the  others,  which  are  found  by 
graphical  integration. 

Only  trajectories  coming  from  points  in  the  plate  above  or 
in  the  XF-plane  are  seen  in  the  wire  model.  To  the  former 
of  these  there  are  corresponding  trajectories  coming  from 
points  below  the  XF-plane  and  symmetrical  with  them  with 
reference  to  that  plane. 

In  Fig.  7  is  seen  the  same  wire  model  with  the  square  plate 
in  the  background.  The  shape  of  the  trajectories  is  easily 
understood  when  compared  with  the  corresponding  integral 
curves  K  in  the  ^Z-plane  : 

Those  farthest  to  the  right  in  Fig.  7,  and  along  which  the 
angle  0  is  positive,  correspond  to  the  case  in  which  the 
constant  7  is  positive ;  the  corresponding  curves  K  run 
upward  as  seen  in  Fig.  8. 

The  next  trajectories  above  the  little  sphere  correspond  to 
7  about  —  0.3.  Along  these  0  is  at  first  positive  and  then 
negative,  and  the  angle  </>  goes  through  a  maximum  where 
the  corresponding  A'-curves  intersect  the  lines  of  magnetic 

force  (see  Fig.  9). 

Those  right  up  to  the  left  of  the  little  sphere  are  seen 
forming  a  whirl,  and  come  nearer  to  the  sphere  than  the 
others.  They  correspond  to  7  nearly  -  0.5  and  to  integral 
curves  K  going  into  the  horn  of  the  region  qy  (see  Fig.  10). 

The  following  trajectories,  some  of  which  are  seen  going 
down  under  the  XF-plane  and  bending  upward  again  to  the 
right  of  the  sphere,  belong  to  an  extremely  interesting  family 
studied    in    detail   in    a   paper   published    in   191 1. f     They 

♦  See  also  Professor  Kr.  Birkeland's  work,  "The  Norwegian  Aurora  Polaris 
Expedition,"  1902-03,  Vol.  I,  first  section,  p.  156. 

t  "Sur  une  classe  de  trajectoires  remarquables  dans  le  mouvement  d'un  cor- 
puscule  electrique  dans  le  champ  d'un  aimant  elementaire."  ("  Archiv  for  mathe- 
matik  og  naturvidenskab,"  Vol.  XXXI,  No.  11 ;   Chrlstiania,  191 1.) 

[996] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

correspond  to  integral  curves  K  penetrating  through  the 
''  defile  ''  between  the  two  parts  of  the  field  of  force  q^  for  7 
between   -  i  and  -  0.8  (see  Fig.  11). 

Farthest  to  the  left  are  seen  the  trajectories  corresponding 
to  7  negative  and  greater  than  -  i  in  numerical  value. 
Along  these  trajectories  the  angle  0  is  always  negative  and 
<f>  always  decreasing.  They  correspond  to  curves  K  in  the 
outer  part  of  the  region  q^  as  seen  in  Fig.  12.  They  all  turn 
their  concavity  toward  the  sphere. 

We  see  that  these  two  last-mentioned  groups  of  trajectories 
form  a  thick  bundle  of  curves  that  more  or  less  encircle  the 
little  sphere  on  the  afternoon  and  night  side,  if  we  consider 
the  sphere  to  be  the  earth  and  the  square  plate  the  sun 
sending  out  the  corpuscles. 

Most  of  the  trajectories,  moreover,  only  approach  the 
sphere  to  within  a  certain  distance,  and  then  go  out  again 
into  infinity.  Only  those  in  the  middle  of  the  whirl  for  7 
about  -  0.5,  and  those  corresponding  to  curves  K  through 
the  "  defile  "  for  7  between  -  0.8  and  -  i  contain  trajec- 
tories that  can  reach  theoretically  the  origin  of  coordinates. 
Those  trajectories  which  pass  through  the  origin  and 
extend  to  an  infinite  distance  are  now  of  the  most  funda- 
mental importance  in  their  application  to  the  aurora  borealis. 
They  have  received  special  study,  as  we  shall  see  in  the 
following  paragraph. 

8.  The  trajectories  passing  through  the  origin,  and  their 
computation. 

For  each  negative  value  of  7  there  are  in  general  two  curves 
K  passing  through  the  origin.  These  curves  are  lying  sym- 
metrically with  the  i?-axis.  To  each  curve  there  are  two 
corresponding  trajectories  in   space,    Ti  and    7^2,    Ti  for  a 

[997] 


THE  RICE  LNSTITUTE 

motion  toward  the  origin  and  T^  for  a  motion  from  it. 
Ti  and  Ti  are  symmetrical  with  reference  to  a  plane  through 
the  Z-axis.  Then,  as  we  have  seen  in  §  S,  there  is,  cor- 
responding to  Ti,  an  infinite  number  of  trajectories  obtained 
by  rotating  Ti  about  the  Z-axis;  they  are  all  congruent. 
In  the  same  way  there  is,  corresponding  to  T^,  an  infinite 
number  of  trajectories  obtained  by  rotating  Ti  about  the 
same  axis ;   they  are  also  all  congruent. 

The  study  and  calculation  of  these  trajectories  by  the 
method  of  numerical  integration  have  been  carried  out  in 
great  detail  in  my  Geneva  paper  of  1907.  The  inner  parts 
of  the  computed  curves  K  are  seen  on  Plate  XXI,  and  many 
of  the  corresponding  trajectories  in  space  in  the  wire  model 
in  Fig.  13.  The  entire  computation  has  taken  more  than 
700  hours,  and  has  been  made  to  six  places  of  decimals.  As 
an  example  are  here  given  the  coordinates  R,  z  and  (/>  corre- 
sponding to  values  of  the  arc  s  for  one  of  these  trajectories. 

The  arc  s  is  reckoned  from  the  origin,  and  Sq  is  the  value 
corresponding  to  the  starting-point.  Here  Sq  =  0.2368.  0  is 
zero  for  j"  =  o. 


Trajectory  through  the  origin  corresponding  to  7 


=  -0.8 


s-  So 

R 

z 

1 

s-so 

R 

z 

</>" 

o 

0.139305 



0.182864 

0.783 

13 

0.183969 

0.206944 

1.220 

I  :  256 

0.142628 

0.184916 

0.813 

14 

0.187523 

0.208563 

1-259 

2 

0.145971 

0.186935 

0.843 

15 

0.191092 

0.210148 

1.300 

3 

0.149334 

0.188920 

0.874 

4 

0.152717 

0.190871 

0.906 

8:  128 

0.194676 

0.211699 

1.340 

5 

0.156120 

0.192788 

0.939 

9 

0.201886 

0.214700 

1.422 

6 

0.159542 

0.194672 

0.971 

10 

0.209150 

0.217565 

1.508 

7 

0.162982 

0.196524 

1.004 

II 

0.216463 

0.220294 

1-597 

8 

0.166439 

0.198343 

1.038 

12 

0.223824 

0.222884 

1.689 

9 

0.169913 

0.200129 

1.073 

13 

0.231230 

0.225340 

1.784 

10 

0.173403 

0.201883 

1. 108 

14 

0.238678 

0.227661 

1.882 

II 

0.176909 

0.203604 

1. 144 

15 

0.246165 

0.229848 

1. 98 1 

12 

0.1 8043 1 

0.205297 

1. 181 

1  16 

0.253688 

0.231902 

2.084 

[99^] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


Trajectory  through  the  origin  corresponding  to  y  =- 0.8  —  Continued 


s  —  So 


17 
18 

19 

20 
21 

II  :64 

12 

13 

14 

15 
16 

17 
18 

19 

20 

21 

22 
23 


R 


32 


12 

13 
14 

15 
16 

17 
18 

19 

20 

21 
22 
23 

H 
25 


13:  16 

H 
15 
16 

18 

19 
20 
21 
22 


0.261244! 

0.268832! 
0,276448! 
0.284089 
0.2917531 

0.299437 

0.31485s 
0.330323 

0.345821 
0.361331 
0.376835 
0.392316 
0.407758 
0.423146 
0.438466 

0.453705 
0.468851 
0.483893 


0.498821 
0.528298 
0.557218 

0.585534 
0.613208 

0.640217 

0.666548 

0.6921981 

0.717171 

0.741481 

0.765146 

0.788190 

0.810641 

0.832530 

0.853891 
0.895176 
0.934796 
0.973054 
1. 010243 
1 .046642 
1.082504 
1.118056 

1-153499 
1. 189006 


0.233823 
0.23561 1 
0.237267 
0.238793 
0.240189 

0.241455 

0.243598 
0.245230 
0.246359 
0.246995 
0.247148 
0.246829 
0.246050 
0.244824 
0.243165 
0.241086 
0.238602 
0.235727 

0.232476 
0.224904 
0.216006 
0.205902 
0.194710 
0.182545 
0.169518 

0-155734 
0.141293 

0.126291 

0.110815 

0-094947 
0-078763 

0,062331 


0° 


S  —  So 


R 


0-045715 
0.012152 
0.021538 
0,055045 
0.088135 
0.120630 
0.152407 
0.183383 
0.213509 
0.242763 


2.190 
2.300 
2.412 
2.526 
2.644 

2.766 
3.018 
3.283 
3-560 
3-848 
4.148 

4-459 
4-781 
5-II4 
5-456 
5.808 
6.170 
6.542 

6.923 
7.711 
8.533 
9.386 
10.268 

ii.i77;j 
12. no  I 

'  i 

13.065  ij 
14.041 

15-035 

16.046 

17.072 

18. 112 
19.163 


20.224  ■ 

22.370  ! 

24-539; 
26.719  I 
28.901  I 
31,076 

33-235 
35-370 
37-476 

39-544 


23 
24 
25 

13:  J 

14 

15 
16 

17 
18 

19 

20 

21 

22 

23 
24 
25 

13:4 

14 

15 
16 

17 
18 

19 

20 

21 

22 
23 

12:  2 

13 

14 

15 
16 

17 

18 

19 
20 
21 


II 
12 
13 
14 


1.224723 
1.260771 
1.297250 

1-334235 
1. 40996 1 

1.488260 
1.569262 
1. 65  297 1 

1-7393 1 1 

1-828153 

I-919345 
2.012720 

2.108110 
2.20535 
2.30429 
2,40478 

2.50669 
2.71428 
2.92621 

3-14179 
3.36042 

3.58161 

3.80513 

4.03048 

4.25748 

4-48590 

4-71556 


4-94630 
5.41055 

5.87782 

6.34750 
6.81913 
7.29237 
7.76693 
8.24261 
8.71923 
9.19666 

9.67478 
10.63276 
11.59259 

12,55386 


-  0.271 145 

-  0.298668 

-  0.325358 

-  0.351250 

-  0.400800' 

-  0.4476621 

-  0.492 1 85 1 

-  0.534700 

-  0.575503 

-  0.614856 

-  0.652981 

-  0.690069 

-  0.726280; 

-  0.761748; 

-  0.796586! 

-  0.830888 

-  0.864733 

-  0.931304 

-  0.996709 

-  1.06124  I 

-  1.12511  I 

-  1. 18846  ! 

-  1. 25142  I 

-  1.3 1406 

-  1.37645 

-  1.43864  I 

-  1.50066  I 


0* 


41-572 
43.554 
45.487 

47.369 
50.969 

54.347 
57-502 
60.436 
63.161 
65.686 
68.026 

70-193 
72,201 

74.062 

75.789 

77-394 

78,886 

81.573 
83.917 
85-973 
87.788 

89.399 
90.837 
92.127 
93.289 

94.341 
95.298 


1-56255 
1. 68601 
1.80915 
1.93206 
2.05480 
2.17742 
2.29994 
2.42239 
2.54478 
2.66712 


96.173 
97.707 
99.008 
100.127 
101.098 
101.946 
102.697 
103.363 
103.960 
104.496 


2.78943  104.981 
3.03395  J105.823 
3,27839  1106,529 
3,52277  ii07.i29 


1:9993 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Trajectory  through  the  origin  corresponding  to  y  =  -  0.08 


—  Continued 


s  -  So 


15 
16 

17 

18 

20 

22 

24 

26 

28 

30 

32 

34 

36 

38 


i? 


13.51628 
14.47962  , 
1544372 

16.40845 

18.33945 
20.27200 

22.20570 

24.14028 

26.07555 
28.01137 

29.9476 

31.8842 

33.8212 
357583 


<^= 


S  —  Sq 


R 


3.76710!  107.646 
4.01 140  108.096 


-  4-25568 

-  4.49994 

-  4.98841 


108.491 

108.840 
109.430' 


5.47684  109.909 
5.96524  110.305 
6.45362I  110.639 


6.94199 

743035 


110.924 
III. 170 


—  7.91870  III. 384 


8.40705 
8.89539 
9-38373 


III. 573 

111.739 

111.888 


40 

44 

48 
52 
56 
60 
64 
68 

72 
80 

88 

96 

104 

112 


37-6957 
41-5710 

45-4469 

49.3232 

53-1998 
57.0767 
60.9538 
64.8310 

68.7085 

76.4637 

84.2194 

91-9754 

99-7315 
107.4880 


<!>' 


9.87207 

10.8487 

11.8254 

12.8021 

13.7787 

14-7554 
15.7320 

16.7087 


112.023 
112.253 
112.445 
112.606 

112.744 
112.864 
112.968 
1 1 3 .060 


17.6853  113-141 
19.6386  113.280 

21.5919'  113-393 

23.5452I  113-487 

25.4985  113-566 
27.4518 


The  calculated  trajectories  through  the  origin  are  only  the 
simplest  ones,  as  I  pointed  out  in  my  Geneva  paper,     f  or  y 
between  -  0.93  and  -  i  there  is  an  immense  number  of  re- 
markable trajectories  not  yet  studied  in  detail,  correspondmg 
to  curious  i^-curves  passing  through  the  defile  from  the  outer 
to  the  inner  region  of  the  field  of  force  q,.    There  are,  for 
instance,  as  already  pointed  out  in  my  Geneva  paper    tra- 
iectories  that  extend  round  the  Z^axis  in  waves  up  and  down 
through  the  Xr-plane,  and  whose   number   of   revolutions 
round  the  Z-axis  may  be  greater  than  any  number  given 
beforehand;  they  come  very  near  to  certain  periodic  orbits 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  circular  orbit  in  the  ZF-plane 

From  the  calculated  trajectories  it  is  possible  by  interpola- 
tion  to  find  any  trajectory  corresponding  to  y  between  zero 
and  -  0.93,  and  thus,  for  instance,  to  construct  the  trajec- 
tories going  out  from  a  given  point,  and  reaching  the  origin, 

for  that  interval  of  r 

pooo] 


I 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

On  Plate  XXII  are  seen  those  trajectories  for  different 
positions  of  the  point  of  departure.  The  Z-coordinates  are 
written  beside  the  marked  points  of  the  trajectories,  so  that 
any  one  can  make  a  wire  model  of  the  figures  if  he  Hkes. 
The  trajectories  going  to  the  upper  part  of  the  sphere  round 
the  origin  are  plain  ;  those  going  to  the  lower  part  are  dotted. 
The  trajectories  are  drawn  only  until  their  intersection  with 
the  sphere.     A  wire  model  is  seen  in  Fig.  14. 

The  figures  illustrate  the  important  theorem  that  through 
a  given  point  in  space  there  are  generally  a  series  of  distinct 
trajectories  passing  through  the  origin. 

As  developed  in  my  Geneva  paper,  the  number  of  such 
distinct  trajectories  from  a  given  point  to  the  origin  may 
vary  immensely ;  it  may  happen  that  we  have  a  series  of  an 
infinite  number  of  trajectories  corresponding  to  an  infinite 
number  of  values  y  converging  to  a  limit  y  situated  between 
—  0.93  and  —  I.  There  may  even  be  several  series  like  this, 
and  probably  even  an  infinite  number  of  such  series  of 
trajectories. 

9.    The  periodic  trajectories. 

It  is  very  interesting  that  there  exists  an  Infinite  number  of 
trajectories  composed  of  Identical  parts,  so  that  a  corpuscle 
following  such  a  trajectory  will  have  a  periodic  motion. 
There  are  even  closed  trajectories  of  this  kind,  so  that  the 
corpuscle,  after  a  certain  time,  comes  back  to  the  same  point 
with  the  same  direction  of  velocity  as  before. 

The  problem  of  finding  these  periodic  orbits  Is  very  much 
facilitated  by  the  mechanical  Interpretation  of  system  (3) 
put  forward  in  §  3.  It  Is  in  fact  sufficient  to  find  periodic 
curves  K. 

For  this  purpose  two  methods  have  been  used. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

The  first  is  to  study,  for  a  given  value  of  7,  all  the  curves 
K  that  meet  the  level-line 

!3=o; 

that  is,  the  boundary  of  the  region  q^  in  the  i?Z-plane,  and 
by  following  them  by  continuity  find  those  that  have  their 
other  extremity  on  one  of  the  branches  of  that  same  line 
Q  =0.  Let  K  in  fact  be  such  a  curve,  and  A  and  B  its 
two  extremities,  situated  on  the  line  Q  =0]  further  let  T 
be  a  corresponding  trajectory  in  space,  and  A'  and  B'  two 
points  on  it  corresponding  to  A  and  B, 

In  the  point  A'  the  angle  d  will  be  +  90°  or  -  90°,  because 
(2  =  o,  that  is  to  say,  the  trajectory  in  that  point  is  normal 
to  the  plane  through  the  point  and  the  Z-axis.  As  the 
magnetic  field  is  a  function  of  R  and  z  only,  that  plane  will 
be  a  plane  of  symmetry  for  the  trajectory.  In  the  same 
way  the  plane  through  the  Z-axis  and  the  point  B'  will  be  a 
plane  of  symmetry,  and  then  after  passing  through  B'  the 
corpuscle  will  follow  a  branch  B'A''  symmetrical  with  B'A\ 
then  a  branch  A^'B''  symmetrical  with  A''B\  and  so  on; 
that  is  to  say,  we  shall  have  a  periodical  trajectory. 

The  corresponding  curve  K  will  have  stopping  points 
(points  d'arret)  in  the  points  A  and  B ;  and  when  the  point  P 
follows  the  trajectory  the  point  p  will  go  from  A  to  B,  then 
from  B  to  A  along  the  same  curve  Z,  then  from  A  to  B 
again,  and  so  on. 

The  second  method  consists  in  studying  all  the  curves  K 
that  intersect  the  i^-axis  orthogonally.  If  we  then  find  a 
curve  intersecting  the  R-slxis  orthogonally  in  one  point  more, 
this  curve  will  be  symmetrical  with  the  R-axis  and  quite 
closed,  and  consequently  the  trajectory  in  space  will  be 
periodical.  This  is  a  point  of  view  used  in  Darwin's  work 
on  the  periodical  trajectories  in  the  problem  of  the  three 
bodies. 

1:1002:] 


^  i 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

When  a  periodical  trajectory  corresponding  to  a  certain 
value  of  7  has  been  found,  other  periodical  trajectories  of  the 
same  family  can  generally  be  found  for  7  near  this  value, 
and  then  by  variation  of  7  even  closed  trajectories.  In  fact, 
if  4>  is  the  difference  of  the  values  of  the  angle  0  for  the  two 
points  A'  and  B'  (</>  counted  in  radian),  it  is  sufficient  to 
vary  7  so  that  the  quotient  ^  :  x  becomes  a  rational  number. 

With  regard  to  the  values  of  7  giving  periodic  trajectories, 
it  is  easy  to  see,  by  looking  at  the  fields  of  force  qy,  that  there 
are  no  such  trajectories  when,  for  instance, 

7>  -0.5. 

For  7  =  —  0.8  there  are,  and  of  course  there  exists  a  value 
of  7  between  —  0.8  and  —  0.5,  so  that  there  are  periodic 
trajectories  for  7  <  t'  but  not  for  7  >  7'.  For  7  less  than 
—  I,  the  periodic  trajectories  can  only  exist  in  the  inner  part 
of  the  region  Qy. 

The  simplest  of  the  periodic  curves  K  are  those  that  con- 
nect the  two  sides  of  the  defile  when  7  lies  between  —  i 
and  7'.  The  corresponding  trajectories  in  space  have  an 
undulating  form,  and  become  the  circle  with  radius  i  lying 
in  the  XY-p\a.ne  with  its  center  in  the  origin,  when  7  becomes 
equal  to  —  i. 

In  Fig.  15  is  seen  such  a  curve  K  corresponding  to 
7  =  —  0.8,  and  the  corresponding  trajectory  in  space  is 
marked  with  III  (in  vertical  and  horizontal  projection)  in 
Fig.  16. 

The  other  trajectories  in  the  same  figure  correspond  to 
7=  —0.97  and  —0.999.  These  trajectories  and  the  cor- 
responding asymptotic  trajectories,  etc.,  are  more  carefully 
studied  in  a  paper  published  in  191 1.* 


*  "Sur  une  classe  de  trajectoires  remarquables,"  etc. 
og  Naturvidenskab,"  Vol.  XXXI;   Christiania,  191 1.) 


("Archiv  for  Mathematik 


1:1003  J 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Another  interesting  periodic  trajectory,  corresponding  to 
y  =  —  0.999,  is  seen  in  Fig.  18  and  the  corresponding  ^-curve 
in  Fig.  17. 

In  Fig.  19  is  seen  a  periodic  trajectory  lying  in  the 
XF-plane  and  corresponding  to  7  =  —  1.2032.  The  dotted 
circles  have  a  radius  equal  to  unity.  The  corresponding 
AT-curve  is  the  segment  of  the  ^-axis  contained  in  the  inner 
part  of  the  region  q^.  The  coordinates  of  this  trajectory  can 
be  expressed  by  elliptic  integrals,  as  is  the  case  with  every 
trajectory  lying  in  that  plane.* 

It  would  be  rather  interesting  to  compute  a  great  number 
of  periodic  trajectories  of  different  families.  Their  shape  is 
sometimes  extremely  curious,  and  they  can  be  found  rather 
easily. 

Their  theory  is  of  much  interest  in  their  application  to 
periodic  magnetic  disturbances. f 

*  See  my  Geneva  paper  of  1907,  §  20. 

t  See  "Comptes  Rendus,"  October  i,  1906;   Paris. 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


[;ioo4] 


II 

APPLICATION    TO    AURORA 

10.  Explanation  of  some  of  Professor  Kr.  BirkelancTs 
experiments. 

As  it  has  been  mentioned  in  §  i.  Professor  Kristian 
Birkeland  has  made  some  extremely  interesting  experiments 
with  a  magnetic  sphere  exposed  to  cathode  rays.  A  great 
many  new  experiments  of  this  kind  have  been  published  in 
the  first  section  of  his  work,  *'The  Norwegian  Aurora  Polaris 
Expedition,"  1902-1903,*  and  more  will  follow  in  the  next 
section  of  that  fundamental  work.f 

As  it  is  well  known,  the  magnetic  field  due  to  a  uniformly 
magnetized  sphere  is  identical  outside  the  sphere  with  the  field 
of  an  elementary  magnet  placed  in  the  center  of  the  sphere. 

It  is  of  course  to  be  expected  that  the  physical  experiments 
and  the  mathematical  theory  will  be  in  accordance,  and  a 
close  comparison  of  the  results  of  the  two  has  also  hitherto 
shown  the  most  excellent  coincidence. 

In  another  paper  the  detailed  comparison  between  the 
theory  and  the  experiment  will  be  fully  described,  so  that  I 
will  not  here  enter  into  details.  Only  some  of  the  most 
striking  coincidences  ought  to  be  mentioned. 

The  first  thing  to  be  fixed  for  the  application  to  Professor 
Birkeland's  experiments  is  our  unit  of  length. 


VF 


*  Obtainable  from  Longmans,  London,  and  Longmans,  Green  &  Co.,  New  York, 
t  See  "Orages  magnetiques  et  aurores  polaires,"  by  Kr.  Birkeland.     ("  Archives 
des  sciences  physiques  et  naturelles,"  Geneva,  191 1.) 


cioos: 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

centimeters.  Here  M  is  the  magnetic  moment  of  the  sphere, 
and  Hp  the  characteristic  product  of  the  cathode  rays  in 
question ;   both  can  be  determined  by  experiments. 

It  is  necessary  to  observe  the  relative  position  of  the 
cathode  with  regard  to  the  sphere  and  its  magnetic  axis, 
and  to  take  into  account  the  form  of  the  vacuum  tube  in 
order  to  obtain  an  exact  idea  of  what  is  to  be  expected.  If, 
in  fact,  the  interior  of  the  tube  is  too  small,  many  of  the 
possible  trajectories  will  not  reach  the  sphere,  but  will  strike 
the  interior  walls  of  the  tube. 

The  region  of  space  Qy,  out  of  which  trajectories  could  not 
come,  can  be  seen  in  Fig.  20,  and  at  the  side  is  seen  the 
corresponding  region  Qy. 

The  patches  where  the  cathode  rays  strike  the  sphere  are 
also  in  accordance  with  the  calculated  trajectories  of  the 
simplest  shape  (—  0.93  <  7<  o),  as  shown  in  Fig.  21. 

In  my  paper,  "  Sur  une  classe  de  trajectoires  remar- 
quables,"  *  etc.,  I  have  shown  that  the  remarkable  series  of 
congruent  precipitations  that  are  sometimes  to  be  seen  on  the 
magnetic  sphere  is  also  in  full  accordance  with  the  theory. 

The  luminous  ring  sometimes  seen  in  the  magnetic  equator 
of   the   sphere   may   correspond   to   the   trajectories   in   the 


vicinity  of  the   circular  orbit  of  radius 


^ 


Hp 


centimeters 


(i.e.  radius  equal  to  our  unit)  in  the  XF-plane ;  but,  as  I 
have  recently  pointed  out,t  a  ring  may  also  be  produced  by 
negative  corpuscles  thrown  out  from  the  sphere  in  the 
neighborhood  of  its  magnetic  equator,  as  in  my  models  of  the 
solar  corona. t 

*  See  "  Orages  magnetiques  et  aurores  polaires,"  by  Kr.  Birkeland.  (''  Archives 
des  sciences  physiques  et  naturelles,"  Geneva,  191 1.) 

t  See  "  Critique  et  developpements  relatifs  au  memoire  de  M.  Richard  Birkeland," 
etc.     ("Archives  des  sciences  physiques  et  naturelles.") 

J  See  "  Sur  la  structure  de  la  couronne  du  soleil."  ("  Comptes  Rendus,"  Septem- 
ber, 26  1910;   Paris.) 

[1006] 


i 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

The  theory  of  artificial  auroral  belts  will  be  more  fully 
developed  in  the  application  to  aurora.  For  further  applica- 
tion I  must  refer  to  my  Geneva  paper  now  in  preparation. 

II.  Application  of  the  region  Qy  to  find  the  auroral  regions 
on  the  earth. 

In  the  application  to  aurora  we  have  considered,  as  already 
stated,  in  §  I,  the  Gaussian  expansion  of  the  magnetic  po- 
tential of  the  earth  for  a  point  outside  it,  and  have  rejected 
all  terms  of  the  series  except  the  first  principal  term,  which 
then  gives  us  the  magnetic  moment  of  the  earth  and  the 
direction  of  the  magnetic  axis.  For  this  axis  we  take  as  a 
definition  an  earth-diameter  parallel  with  that  direction.* 

In  the  applications  in  the  Geneva  paper  of  1907  I  have 
chosen  as  the  magnetic  moment  of  the  earth 

M=8.52  X  io25. 

The  point  of  intersection  of  the  magnetic  axis  (the  south  end) 
with  the  surface  of  the  earth  is  marked  on  the  chart,  Fig.  24, 
for  the  years  1700  and  1900.  The  positions  are  calculated  by 
the  formula  of  Carlheim  Gyllenskold.f 
After  that  the  unit  of  length. 


v^ 


Hp 


centimeters 


is  to  be  found,  and  it  is  then  necessary  to  know  the  product 
Hp  for  the  electrified  corpuscles  supposed  to  be  the  cause  of 
aurora. 

Regarding  this  product  Hp^  we  can  only  make  assumptions 
until  further  evidence  has  been  obtained.     In  my  Geneva 

*  It  is  possible  that  an  axis  parallel  to  this  one  and  suitably  chosen  might  be  still 
better. 

t  For  the  details,  see  my  Geneva  paper,  1911-12,  Part  I. 

1:10073 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

paper  of  1907  I  have  calculated  the  unit  of  length  correspond- 
ing to  cathode  rays,  jS-rays  and  a-rays  of  radium.  The 
result  was  as  follows  : 


Hp 


Cathode  rays < 

^                                             1  543 

^-rays <  ' 

I  4,524 

[  291,000 

a-ravs <  ^  ' 

[  398,000 


Unit  of  Length  in  Kilometers 


8.9 
4 

2.2 
1.4 

1-7 


X  108 
X108 

Xio® 
X108 

Xio'^ 


1.46  X  10^ 


The  dimensions  of  the  regions  Qy  are  therefore  immense  as 
compared  with  those  of  the  earth,  as  will  be  seen  from  Fig.  22. 

This  figure  represents  the  shapes  of  a  series  of  regions  qy 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  origin.     The  scale,  which  is  much  larger 

than  on  Plate  I,  is  marked  on  the  ^-axis,  "Vt^-  being  taken 

Hp 

as  the  unit  of  length.  The  parts  qy,  which  are  white,  are  not 
continued  up  to  the  origin,  in  order  to  avoid  indistinctness. 
The  five  dotted  circles  indicate  the  relative  size  of  the  earth 
as  compared  with  the  spaces  Qy  for  various  kinds  of  cor- 
puscles ;  the  innermost  circle  corresponds  to  cathodic  rays 
where  //p=3i5,  the  two  next  to  /3-rays  where  Hp  =2Sgi 
and  4524,  and  the  two  outer  circles  correspond  to  a -rays 
where  Hp  =  2.gi  X  10^  and  3.98  X  lo^* 

Now  the  first  necessary  condition  fulfilled  by  corpuscles 
sent  out  from  a  point  at  a  distance  from  the  earth  greater 

— -  and  reaching  the  earth,  is  that  the  corresponding 
Hp 

space  Qy  extends  without  interruption  from  the  point  of 
emanation  to  the  earth.  The  constant  7  corresponding  to 
the  trajectory  cannot  therefore  be  less  than   —  i.     On  the 

*  See  my  Geneva  paper  of  1907,  §  17. 

C 1008 3 


4 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

other  hand,  a  detailed  study  of  the  shapes  of  the  regions  q 
for  7  >  o  shows  that  7  cannot  be  greater  than 

where  A  is  the  distance  from  the  center  of  the  earth  to  the 
aurora  measured  with  our  unit  of  length  \jM. 

^h' 

The  regions  of  the  earth  in  which  the  corpuscles  can  strike 
the  atmosphere  will  thus  be  confined  to  two  zones  round  the 
magnetic  axis  and  limited  by  circles  whose  radius  in  degrees 
is  easily  found.*  If  we  call  that  radius  O,  we  have,  with 
sufficient  exactness. 


sm 


fl  =V2A 


A  being  the  above-mentioned  distance.  If  we  measure 
A  in  centimeters,  and  if  it  is  equal  to  D  centimeters,  we 
obtain 


sm 


n=J.z)Vf. 


Thus  for  cathode  rays  I  found  X2  to  be  between  2°  and  4°, 
for  /5-rays  between  4°  and  6°,  and  for  a-rays  between  16° 
and  19°. 

The  corresponding  regions  on  the  earth  are  seen  in  Fig.  23, 
a  and  b. 

Here  we  see  the  first  objection  to  the  theory :  the  radius 
of  the  auroral  zone  is  too  small  for  cathode-rays  and  ^S-rays 
of  the  known  kinds.  In  fact  the  real  auroral  zone  is  gen- 
erally limited  by  a  circle  of  radius  about  23°,  and  sometimes 
goes  much  farther  from  the  magnetic  axis. 

We  will  return  to  this  important  question  later  on. 

*  See  my  Geneva  paper  of  1907,  §§  6  and  17. 

C 1009 3 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


12.  Application  of  the  trajectories  through  the  origin  to  find 
the  auroral  belts. 

We  will  now  make  the  further  hypothesis  that  the  cor- 
puscles come  from  the  sun,  and  see  if  that  hypothesis  will 
reduce  the  theoretical  auroral  regions  still  more. 

If  we  suppose,  as  in  my  Geneva  paper,  that 

I  GO  ^  Up  ^  400,000, 

it  will  be  seen  that  only  the  corpuscles  whose  trajectories  lie  in 
the  vicinity  of  those  through  the  origin  can  reach  the  earth  ; 
the  others  return  into  space. 

The  study  of  the  trajectories  through  the  origin  is  therefore 
most  important  for  the  application  to  the  aurora. 

Now  the  angle  between  the  plane  normal  to  the  earth's 
magnetic  axis  and  the  line  from  the  earth  to  the  sun  varies 
between  —  35"^  and  -f  35°,  and  therefore  trajectories  whose 
infinite  branches  come  from  directions  outside  this  interval 
have  to  be  excluded. 

As  the  computations  show,*  these  excluded  trajectories 
correspond  to  7  between  o  and  —  0.2,  and  their  point  of 
intersection  with  the  earth  will  lie  in  regions  round  the 
magnetic  axis  limited  by  circles. 

Only  two  belts  of  the  theoretical  aurora  region  found  in  the 
foregoing  paragraph  will  thus  be  left.  The  breadth  of  these 
belts  will  be  still  more  reduced  when  we  only  take  into 
account  auroras  which  are  visible  when  the  sun  is  below  the 
horizon  ;  for  7  will  then  be  confined  to  the  interval  from 
about  —  0.5  to  —  I. 

The  auroral  belts  are  thus  explained,  but,  as  has  already 
been  pointed  out,  we  do  not  get  the  real  situation  of  these 
belts ;  they  are  too  near  the  magnetic  axis  for  hitherto 
known  corpuscles.     But  the  fact  that  the  magnetic  axis  is 

*  See  my  Geneva  paper  of  1907. 
[lOIO] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

in  the  middle  of  the  belts  is  in  accordance  with  reality,  as 
may  be  seen  on  the  chart  of  the  frequency  of  aurora  borealis 

(Fig.  24). 


1 3 .  Explanation  of  a  series  of  peculiarities  regarding  aurora, 
as  an  application  of  the  theory  of  the  trajectories  through  the 
origin.     Formation  of  auroral  curtains. 

Let  us  now  suppose  that  corpuscles  are  sent  out  from  a 
point  of  the  sun's  surface  in  all  directions  into  space.  Let  us 
further  assume  that  the  constant  Hp  is  the  same  for  all  these 
corpuscles  and  that  it  has  a  value  between  loo  and  400,000. 

As  I  have  pointed  out  in  the  foregoing  paragraph,  the 
corpuscles  whose  directions  of  emanation  are  very  nearly 
tangent  to  a  trajectory  through  the  origin  will  reach  the 
earth,  the  others  will  pass  by.  Let  us  call  the  directions 
tangent  to  trajectories  through  the  origin,  distinguished 
directions. 

Their  configuration  and  their  number  vary  enormously 
with  the  relative  position  of  the  point  of  emanation  with 
regard  to  the  magnetic  axis  of  the  earth.  Now  this  position 
is  continually  changing  because  the  magnetic  axis  follows 
the  movements  of  the  earth,  and  consequently  the  condi- 
tions for  the  occurrence  of  aurora  must  vary  considerably 
with  time,  a  circumstance  which  accords  well  with  the 
sudden  variable  character  of  the  auroral  phenomena. 

This  may  also  explain  the  fact  frequently  observed,  that 
aurora  occurs  on  two  consecutive  days  almost  at  the  same 
hour;  in  fact,  the  relative  position  between  the  point  of 
emanation  and  the  earth's  magnetic  axis  is  repeated  after 
twenty-four  hours. 

But  as  the  point  of  emanation  follows  the  sun's  rotation, 
we  have  another  well-known  period  of   twenty-seven  days 

Cioii] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

between  two  consecutive  passages  of  a  sun  spot  through  the 
solar  meridian  whose  plane  passes  through  the  earth.  The 
cases  in  which  the  sun  spot  does  not  give  rise  to  a  new  aurora 
the  next  time  it  passes  may  be  explained  by  the  non-coinci- 
dence of  the  directions  of  emanation  with  the  distinguished 
directions  ;  in  fact  a  slight  difference  in  the  relative  positions 
can  cause  the  distinguished  directions  that  existed  at  the 
first  passage  to  disappear. 

Let  us  now  assume  that  a  beam  of  corpuscular  rays  is  sent 
out  with  the  same  velocity  from  a  surface  of  emanation  on 
the  sun,  and  that  it  reaches  the  earth's  atmosphere  and 
produces  aurora.  The  constant  7  for  the  diiferent  trajec- 
tories in  the  beam  is  given  by  the  formula 


2y  =  R  sin  6  — 


r^' 


where  R  and  r  are  coordinates  of  the  point  from  which  the 
trajectory  starts,  and  6  is  the  angle  between  its  tangent  at 
that  point  and  the  plane  through  the  magnetic  axis  of  the 
earth.  It  is  clear  that  if  we  choose  the  same  7  for  all  the 
trajectories,  the  beam  will  consist  of  almost  parallel  rays. 

All  the  trajectories  will  then  be  in  the  interior  of  the 
region  Qy^  and  consequently  the  aurora  also.  Now  near  the 
earth,  this  region  Qy  is  the  very  narrow  space  inclosed 
between  the  two  surfaces  of  revolution  corresponding  to 
k=  -\-i  and  k=  —I,  and  the  aurora  will  therefore  appear 
in  the  region  of  the  atmosphere  between  these  two  surfaces. 
That  region  extends  all  round  the  earth  with  the  magnetic 
axis  in  the  middle,  and  is  very  narrow.  For  instance,  the 
thickness  (see  Plate  XX  and  Figs.  22  and  25)  is 

For  cathode  rays,  between         3  and         20  meters ; 
For  i3-rays,  between        50  and        150  meters; 

For  a-rays,  between  9,000  and  13,000  meters. 

[1012] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Therefore,  as  already  pointed  out  in  my  paper,  "  Sur  le 
mouvement  d'un  point  materiel  portant  une  charge  d'elec- 
tricite  sous  Taction  d'un  aimant  elementaire"  (Christiania, 
1904),  the  rays  of  the  beam  distributed  in  this  region  may 
give  rise  to  the  light  phenomenon  which  we  call,  according 
to  circumstances,  an  arc  or  an  auroral  curtain. 

We  will  study  more  closely  a  case  in  which  the  spreading 
out  of  a  cylindrical  beam  into  a  curtain  can  be  explained 
mathematically.* 

In  Fig.  26  the  earth  is  situated  in  the  origin,  with  its 
magnetic  axis  coinciding  with  the  Z-axis  and  the  north 
polar  region  turned  upward.  Let  My  be  the  point  of  emana- 
tion of  a  corpuscle  following  the  trajectory  through  the  origin 
corresponding  to  the  constant  7.  Let  Dy  be  the  tangent  to 
that  trajectory  at  the  point  My,  \[/y  the  angle  between  the 
radius  vector  to  My  and  the  Xy-plane,  and  ^y  the  variation 
of  the  angle  0  when  the  corpuscle  moves  from  My  to  the 
origin,  ^y  is  positive  or  negative  according  to  increasing  or 
decreasing  angle  0. 

Let  us  give  the  point  My  a  little  displacement  without 
changing  the  distance  from  the  origin,  and  at  the  same  time 
vary  7  continuously  so  that  we  get  the  corresponding  tra- 
jectories through  the  origin  in  the  new  position. 

Let  us  call  A^  and  A0  the  augmentations  of  if/y  and  </> 
corresponding  to  the  displacement  of  My,  and  A7  and  A$ 
the  corresponding  augmentations  of  7  and  <l>y. 

Here  A7  is  independent  of  A0  and 

A$  =  A0+Ai<l>, 

where  Ai^  is  the  augmentation  of  ^y  when  0  is  constant  and 
xpy  varies  from  \l/y  to  i/'y-f-  A  \p. 

To  find  A7  and  Ai$  it  is  sufficient  to  know  how  the  angles 

*  See  my  Geneva  paper  of  1907,  §  19. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

}Py  and  <f>y  vary  with   7,   for    the   trajectories   through    the 

origin. 

Let  us  now  study  the  variation  of  the  point  of  precipitation 
of  the  corpuscle  upon  the  earth  and  its  displacement  corre- 
sponding to  the  displacement  of  the  point  My. 

Let  us  consider  the  point  of  intersection  Jq  of  the  trajec- 
tory from  My  with  a  sphere  S  concentric  with  the  earth, 
and  whose  radius  D  is  equal  to  the  distance  D  from  the  center 
of  the  earth  to  the  aurora.  Let  J  be  the  displaced  point 
corresponding  to  the  new  position  of  My.  Further,  let  Co 
and  C  be  two  smaller  circles  on  2  with  their  centers  in  the 
magnetic  axis,  and  passing  through  Jq  and  J  respectively. 
Let  MJo  and  MA  be  two  great  circles  through  Jq  and  Ji 
and  M,  and  let  J'  be  the  point  of  intersections  of  MJ  with 
the  circle  C.  The  position  of  J  is  determined  by  Aq^'  and 
A' A,  and  we  will  find  these  displacements  as  functions  of  A7 

and  A^. 

As  7  is  negative,  let  us  put 

7  =  -  71 


and  let 


We  then  have 


^,M 

\ —  =  c. 


sni 


a  =\- 


and 


Aa  = \ 

cos  a      2  cyi 


A7, 


whence 


A'A  = 


D 


4. 


D 


cos  a     2  C71 


A7. 


Here  A  will  be  nearer  or  farther  from  the  magnetic  axis 
than  Aq  corresponding  respectively  to  positive  or  negative 
A7.     To  find  AqA'  we  may  remark  that  the  angle  AqMA' 

[10143 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

is  equal  to    A$ ;   if   A$  is  then  measured  in  degrees,  we  have 

AoA'  -^  [A0  -f-  ^M  D  sin  a. 
180 

Here  A'  will  be  to  the  west  of  the  point  Aq^  if  AqA'  is  positive, 
and  to  the  east  if  it  is  negative. 

By  these  formulae  the  situation  of  the  point  A  relative  to 
Aq  can  be  calculated  ;  here  Aq  is  the  point  of  precipitation  of 
the  corpuscle  coming  from  My,  and  A  the  point  of  precipi- 
tation of  the  corpuscles  coming  from  the  displaced  point  My. 

It  is  clear  that  we  can  now  find  the  precipitations  of  all  the 
corpuscles  coming  from  a  whole  surface  of  emanation  and 
corresponding  to  continuous  variations  of  7,  and  this,  as  we 
shall  see,  will  give  a  very  natural  explanation  of  an  auroral 
curtain. 

//  the  situation  of  the  point  of  emanation  My  is  chosen  in 
such  a  manner  that  A<I>  is  very  great  and  A7  very  small  com- 
pared with  Axp,  then  AqA'  will  he  very  long  compared  with  A' A. 
The  corpuscular  rays  sent  out  from  the  surface  of  emanation 
will  therefore  be  spread  out  like  a  fan  in  approaching  the 
earth,  and  will  strike  the  atmosphere  as  an  auroral  curtain 
consisting  of  beams  *  along  the  lines  of  force,  as  on  the 
photographs  on  Plates  XXIII,  XXIV  which  I  took  at  Bosse- 
kop  in  March,  1910. 

Situations  like  this  occur  for  the  values  of  ^y  corresponding 
to  a  maximum  or  a  minimum  of  the  function 

In  Fig.  28  we  see  a  curve  like  this  constructed  by  means  of 
computed  trajectories  through  the  origin. 

The  curve  is  to  be  continued  to  the  right,  and  will  tend  more 
and  more  to  consist  of  an  infinite  series  of  congruent  arcs,  like 

*  For  details  concerning  the  trajectories  in  such  a  beam,  see  my  Geneva  paper 
of  1911-12,  §  25. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

a  sinusoid,  giving  an  infinite  number  of  trajectories  cor- 
responding  to   values   of  y   tending  towards   the   limit   7* 

mentioned  in  §  8. 

A  detailed  computation  of  an  auroral  curtain  correspond- 
ing to  the  minimum  for 

7=   -  0.928934 

will  be  found  in  my  Geneva  paper  of  1907.  The  result  was 
that  the  length  of  the  curtain  was  more  than  a  thousand 
times  as  great  as  its  thickness,  which  is  in  good  accordance 

with  the  reality. 

Even  the  remarkable  fact  that  we  can  have  several  auroral 
curtains  one  behind  another  \  can  very  easily  be  explained. 
There  may  be  two  reasons.J  If  the  surface  of  emanation 
sends  out  corpuscles  whose  velocity  has  a  finite  number  of 
distinct  values  differing  very  little  from  one  another,  our 
unit  of  length  will  differ  for  the  different  kinds  of  corpuscles, 
and  therefore  also  the  distance  of  the  curtain  from  the 
magnetic  axis ;   we  shall  get  curtains  one  behind  another. 

But  even  with  the  same  kind  of  corpuscles  we  may  get 
series  of  curtains.  Let  us,  for  instance,  assume  that  the 
direction  of  emanation  corresponds  to  a  value  like  7*,  which 
is  the  limit  for  a  series  of  values  of  7  corresponding  to  tra- 
jectories going  round  the  earth  an  increasing  number  of  times 
(see  §  8).  Then  the  beam  sent  out  from  the  surface  will  give 
trajectories  corresponding  to  several  cases  of  fan-spreading 
and  to  corresponding  values  of  7  differing  very  little.  Con- 
sequently a  series  of  auroral  curtains  will  be  spread  out  all 
round  the  magnetic  axis  in  the  north  and  south  polar  regions 
at  one  time,  and  if  they  all  occur  in  the  same  meridian,  they 

*  For  details  concerning  the  trajectories  in  such  a  beam,  see  my  Geneva  paper 

of  1911-12,  §  25. 

t  See  Plate  XXV,  which  represents  a  photograph  taken  by  me  on  February  28, 

1910,  in  Bossekop. 

X  See  my  Geneva  paper  of  1907,  §  19. 

[1016] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

will  appear  one  behind  another.  A  value  of  4'-,  like  this  is 
indicated  in  Fig.  29,  which  is  the  continuation  of  the  curve 

where  the  line  corresponding  to  the  value  ^^  in  question 
intersects  the  curve  in  an  infinite  number  of  points  near  the 
minima,  giving  curtains  whose  corresponding  angles  are 
found  on  the  axis  of  abscissae.  The  situations  giving  rise 
to  curtains  and  series  of  curtains  will  be  rapidly  passed  over 
because  the  magnetic  axis  of  the  earth  is  rotating  round  the 
axis  of  rotation  by  the  diurnal  motion,  which  changes  the 
relative  position  of  the  surface  of  emanation  assumed  to  be 
on  the  sun.  This  is  in  accordance  with  the  observed  fact, 
namely,  that  these  beautiful  phenomena  come  suddenly  and 
last  only  a  very  short  time. 


1:10173 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


III 

OBJECTIONS    TO    THE     PRECEDING    THEORY.        INVESTIGATION 
UNDER    MORE    GENERAL    ASSUMPTIONS 

14.    The  position  of  the  auroral  zone. 

As  we  pointed  out  in  §  2,  the  above  theory  was  only  the 
first  approximation  to  reaUty  corresponding  to  the  simpHfy- 
ing  hypothesis  there  set  forth.  It  is  therefore  rather  remark- 
able to  see  how  many  peculiarities  of  the  aurora  can  already 
be  explained.  But  there  are  also  facts  that  do  not  agree  with 
the  developed  theory. 

The  chief  of  these,  already  pointed  out  by  Villard,  is  the 
real  situation  of  the  zone  of  maximum  frequency  of  aurora. 
We  have  seen  that  at  its  outer  border  the  auroral  zone  was 
limited  by  a  circle,  whose  angular  radius  12  was  given  by 
the  formula 


sinl2=\2Z)V^, 

which  gave  only  about  6  degrees  for  ^-rays  corresponding  to 
Hp  =  5000,  and  about  18  degrees  for  a-rays  of  radium. 
The  real  value  corresponding  to  the  general  situation  of  the 
maximal  zone  of  aurora  borealis  is,  on  the  contrary,  23°, 
corresponding  to  Hp  about  a  million. 

In  my  Geneva  paper  of  1907  I  already  admitted  the 
possibility  that  the  corpuscular  rays  corresponding  to  large 
sun  spots  and  brilliant  corresponding  aurora  may  have  a 
much  larger  value  of  Hp  than  those  corresponding  to  aurora 
in  the  maximal  zone;  but  I  did  not  pay  much  attention 
to  that  side  of  the  question.     I  thought  it  possible  that  if 

1:10183 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

we  changed  hypothesis  V,  and  took  into  account  the  real 
Gaussian  expression  for  the  magnetic  field  with  all  the  terms 
hitherto  considered,  we  might  also  find  the  real  situation  of 
the  auroral  zone. 

To  test  this  was  an  extremely  laborious  and  tedious  task. 
I  had  first  to  compute  tables  and  draw  corresponding  plates 
for  taking  out  graphically  the  components  of  the  earth's 
magnetism  in  each  point  of  space  required.  To  calculate 
these  components  would  have  been  impracticable,  because 
each  contains  about  fifty  terms  in  its  expression.  I  had 
then  to  calculate  the  lines  of  force  and  then  the  trajectories. 

These  computations  have  been  given  in  detail  in  my  recent 
Geneva  paper  of  1911-12.  The  result,  however,  was 
negative,  being  as  follows  : 

It  seemed  probable^  but  could  not  be  decided  with  certainty ^ 
that  the  consideration  of  the  Gaussian  expression  with  all  terms 
known  could  not  explain  the  real  situation  of  the  auroral  zone. 

In  the  meantime  Professor  Kr.  Birkeland  had  published 
a  note  in  the  "  Comptes  Rendus,"  Paris,*  where  he  explained 
the  situation  of  the  auroral  zone  by  assuming  for  the  cor- 
puscles in  question  hitherto  unobserved  properties  —  first, 
that  the  velocity  is  very  nearly  the  velocity  of  light  (an 
assumption  that  gives  a  sufficiently  high  value  of  Hp)^  and 
next,  that  the  charge  is  negative  and  that  the  corpuscular 
rays  have  such  great  power  of  penetration  that  they  can 
reach  almost  down  to  sea  level,  a  penetration  equivalent 
to  that  required  to  pass  through  760  millimeters  of  mercury. 
It  is  clear  that  if  this  hypothesis  could  be  verified,  we  should 
have  in  the  auroral  rays  corpuscular  rays  of  extreme  interest. 

Now  the  first  exact  measures  of  the  altitude  of  aurora, 
by  a  photographic  method,  obtained  on  my  auroral  expedi- 

*  January  24,  191 2. 

1:10193 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

tlon  *  to  Bossekop  in  February  and  March,  1910,  gave  a 
series  of  reliable  determinations  of  the  altitude  of  the  lower 
edge  of  the  auroral  curtains ;  and  it  was  shown  that  these 
aurorae  did  not  possess  anything  like  the  extreme  power  of 
penetration  supposed  by  Birkeland.  Some  of  them,  however, 
which  reached  the  lower  limit  of  about  40  kilometers,  gave 
a  penetration  greater  f  than  the  /S-rays  of  radium,  for  which 
Hp  =  5000. 

The  120-and-odd  exact  measurements  of  aurora  photo- 
graphed simultaneously  in  Christiania  and  at  Aas  on  April  8, 
191 1,  also  proved  {  that  the  beams  and  draperies  stopped  at 
an  altitude  of  about  60  kilometers,  which  corresponds  to  a 
penetration  equal  to  that  of  /3-rays ;  and  this  too  is  not  in 
accordance  with  Birkeland's  views.  It  is  possible  that  the 
great  aurorae  sometimes  seen  during  the  maximal  period  of 
solar  activity  may  reach  as  far  down  as  Birkeland  assumes, 
but  this  has  yet  to  be  proved. 

In  order  to  explain  the  situation  of  the  auroral  zone  when 
Hp  is  only  of  the  same  order  as  for  jS-rays,  I  endeavored  to 
find  out  whether  the  outer  magnetic  field  caused  by  corpus- 
cular rays  round  the  earth  could  have  an  influence  on  the 
situation  of  the  auroral  zone  and,  for  instance,  draw  it  away 
from  the  magnetic  axis  when  the  quantity  of  corpuscles  was 
large  enough,  as  during  magnetic  storms. 

The  results  of  the  computations  were  favorable  to  this 
hypothesis,  as  we  shall  see  in  the  next  paragraph. § 


*  See  "Bericht  iiber  eine  Expedition  nach  Bossekop,"  etc.  ("Videnskabsselsk. 
Skr.,"  191 1 ;    Christiania. 

t  See  P.  Lenard:  "Ueber  die  Strahlen  der  Nordlichter  Sitzungsberichte  der 
Heidelberger  Akademie  der  Wissenshaften,"  2  Juli,  1910;  and  "Ueber  die  Ab- 
sorption der  Nordlichtstrahlen  en  der  Erdatmosphare,"  ibid.,  13  Mai,  191 1. 

X  See  my  Geneva  paper  of  1911-12,  §  27. 

§  For  the  first  results  see,  "Sur  la  situation  de  la  zone  de  frequence  maximum  des 
aurores  boreales  d'apres  la  theorie  corpusculaire."  ("Comptes  Rendus,"  Paris, 
October  24,  1910.) 

[1020] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

15.    The  action  of  the  outer  corpuscular  magnetic  field  on  the 
situation  of  the  auroral  zone.     General  problem. 


As  shown  by  Professor  Kr.  Birkeland's  researches  on 
magnetic  storms,  it  seems  extremely  probable  that  magnetic 
storms  are  due  to  the  action  of  large  corpuscular  currents 
in  space  outside  the  earth.  If  we  admit  that  such  currents 
have  electromagnetic  action,  it  is  clear  that  the  normal 
terrestrial  field  in  space  can  be  completely  altered  by  these 
corpuscular  currents,  especially  at  a  great  distance  from  the 
earth,  where  the  terrestrial  field  is  very  weak. 

The  perturbation  of  the  terrestrial  field  in  space  will  vary 
with  the  amount  of  corpuscles  and  with  their  trajectories. 
On  the  other  hand,  each  corpuscle  will  have  an  electro- 
magnetic action  on  every  other  corpuscle  and  on  the  electro- 
magnetic field  of  the  earth,  and  vice  versa.  This  brings  us 
to  the  following  difficult  problem. 

A  number  of  celestial  bodies  —  e.g.  the  planets  and  the  sun 
—  are  moving  in  a  given  manner  in  space.  These  bodies 
may  be  magnetizable  and  surrounded  by  electromagnetic 
fields.  On  the  other  hand,  we  assume  a  number  of  corpuscles 
moving  in  space,  and  at  a  fixed  moment  we  suppose  the 
motion  of  all  these  corpuscles  to  be  known.  The  motion 
and  the  electromagnetic  field  at  any  given  future  moment 
have  then  to  be  found. 

It  is  clear  that  this  problem  must  be  extremely  difficult. 
Each  corpuscle  exerts  an  electromagnetic  action  on  every 
other  corpuscle,  and  we  have  reciprocal  electromagnetic 
action  between  the  corpuscles  and  the  celestial  bodies. 
Further,  the  electromagnetic  action  is  propagated  in  space 
with  the  velocity  of  light,  so  that  the  field  in  any  point  is  a 
function  of  the  conditions  in  space,  not  only  at  the  moment 
immediately  preceding,  but  for  a  definite  period  before.    It 

1:10213 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

seems  probable,  therefore,  that  the  equations  defining  the 
development  of  the  phenomena  will  not  be  differential  equa- 
tions, but  rather  integral  equations,  where  the  unknown 
quantities  are  put  under  signs  of  integration,  as  in  the  case 
of  the  Fredholm  integral-equations. 

We  cannot  now  treat  this  general  problem.  We  will  only 
mention  a  simple  case.  In  the  discussion  of  the  trajectories 
shown  in  the  wire  model  (Fig.  6),  we  saw  that  there  was  a 
large  stream  of  corpuscles  going  round  the  magnetic  sphere 
on  the  evening  and  night  side,  if  we  consider  the  sphere 
as  the  earth  and  the  surface  of  emanation  as  the  sun.  This 
stream,  as  we  saw,  can  go  quite  round  the  earth  and  form  a 
corpuscular  ring  in  the  magnetic  equatorial  plane,  with  radius 
equal  to  our  unit  of  length  M^{Hp)~2  centimeters. 

If  we  suppose  the  outer  magnetic  field  to  be  due  only  to  a 
corpuscular  ring  such  as  this,  it  is  possible  to  find  the  regions 
of  space  out  of  which  trajectories  cannot  come.  In  my 
Geneva  paper  I  have  discussed  in  detail  an  ideal  case  such 
as  this. 

I  will  here  only  give  the  principal  results. 

Let  us  assume  a  corpuscular  current  to  be  lying  in  the 
magnetic  equatorial  plane,  having  the  form  of  a  circle  with 

radius  

\/— - —  centimeters. 

Here  M  is  the  magnetic  moment  of  the  earth,  and  Hipi  the 
characteristic  product  of  the  corpuscles  in  the  ring.  If  the 
charge  of  these  corpuscles  is  negative,  the  corpuscles  will  be 
supposed  to  be  moving  in  a  direction  from  west  by  south  to 
east ;  if  the  charge  is  positive,  in  the  opposite  direction,  all 
in  accordance  with  the  trajectories  in  the  earth's  normal  field. 
Let  us  further  denote  with  H  the  direct  magnetic  action  of 
this  ring  observed  on  the  surface  of  the  earth.     If  this  action 

[;io223 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

is  only  about  30  units  7  (one  7  equal  to  io~^  C.G.S.),  it  will 
be  sufliicient  to  draw  the  auroral  zone  corresponding  to  other 
corpuscles  so  far  away  from  the  magnetic  axis  that  we  shall 
get  the  real  position  of  the  observed  zone  of  maximal  fre- 
quency, as  will  be  seen  from  the  following  table,*  where  //oPo 
is  the  characteristic  product  for  the  aurora  corpuscles,  Hipi 
the  same  for  the  corpuscles  in  the  ring. 

Tab  If  of  the  Values  of  H  if  the  Auroral  Zone  is  drawn  down  to  the  Observed  Zone 

corresponding  to  ^  =  2^ 


floPo  =  lo2 

I02-5 

io3 

I03.5 

10* 

io*-S 

10^ 

,05.6 

IO« 

//iPl  =  Io2 

33 

33 

33 

33 

33 

32 

30 

23 

4 

=  I02-5 

32 

32 

32 

32 

32 

31 

29 

23 

4 

=  I03 

32 

32 

32 

32 

32 

30 

23 

4 

=  Io3-5 

32 

32 

32 

32 

32 

30 

23 

4 

=  10^ 

79 

32 

32 

32 

30 

23 

4 

=  lO*  5 

460 

140 

46 

32 

23 

4 

=  ioS 

250 

79 

32 

30 

22 

4 

=  I05-5 

1400 

450 

140 

43 

22 

4 

=  I06 

2600 

790 

230 

5H 

3 

=  lO^-S 

4-^00 

1300 

340 

i  2» 

1 

Thus  a  ring  consisting  of  ^-rays  can  bring  the  theoretical 
auroral  zone  for  cathode  rays  down  from  fi=  3°  to  12=  23°, 
when  the  current  in  the  ring  becomes  large  enough.  As  I 
have  shown  in  my  Geneva  paper,  the  current  will  then  be  of 
the  order  of  a  hundred  million  amperes,  and  its  distance 
from  the  earth  about  one  million  kilometers. 

I  think  it  probable  that  there  is  such  a  ring  or  at  least  a 
large  stream  of  corpuscular  rays  bending  round  the  afternoon 
and  night  side  of  the  earth,  with  an  action  similar  to  that  of 

a  ring. 

Another  effect  of  an  exterior  magnetic  field  such  as  this  is 
to  concentrate  the  auroral  zones  corresponding  to  different 

*  See  my  Geneva  paper  of  1911-12,  §  19. 

1:1023] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

kinds  of  corpuscles  in  one  belt  corresponding  to  Q  =  23°  in 
the  above  example,  which  may  give  an  explanation  of  the 
observed  fact  that  in  the  maximal  zone  we  have  aurorae  of 
very  different  degrees  of  penetration.  During  my  expedi- 
tion, I  measured  auroral  curtains  whose  lower  edges  were 
about  40,  50,   60,   70,   80,    and   125   kilometers   above   the 

ground. 

The  hypothesis  of  the  outer  disturbing  field  that  draws  the 
auroral  zone  away  from  the  magnetic  axis  has  a  most  interest- 
ing application  to  aurora  observed  during  magnetic  storms. 

It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  aurorae  seen  in  lower  latitudes 
e.g.  in  the  middle  of  Europe  —  are  always  accompanied  by 
magnetic  storms,  which  is  not  generally  the  case  with  aurorae 
in  the  zone  of  maximal  frequency. 

On  the  other  hand,  auroras  occurring  far  away  from  the 
magnetic  axis  do  not  penetrate  so  far  into  the  atmosphere 
as  the  aurorae  in  the  maximal  zone.  An  example  of  this  is 
afforded  by  my  photographic  parallax  measurements  of  the 
auroral  curtains  at  Bossekop  and  in  Christiania,  the  lower 
limit  of  the  altitude  found  at  Bossekop  being  40  kilometers, 
and  in  Christiania,  on  April  8,  191 1,  about  60  kilometers. 
It  seems  probable  that  the  most  penetrating  aurorae  cor- 
respond to  the  greatest  values  of  the  constant  ^oPo,  and  we 
then  have  a  contradiction  when  we  calculate  the  outer  border 
of  the  auroral  zone  by  the  formula 


ann  =  ^2Z)V^ 


which  corresponds  to  no  action  of  an  exterior  field. 

But  if  we  take  such  a  field  into  account,  we  can  have  the 
aurora  even  when  caused  by  cathode  corpuscles  drawn  away 
from  the  magnetic  axis  into  positions  corresponding  to  the 
observed  facts ;    but  the  action  7/,  which  was  negligible  in 

[1024] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

the  case  of  aurorae  in  the  maximal  zone,  now  grows  very  fast 
as  may  be  seen  from  the  following  Table. 

^  =  30°        35°      40^ 

6607 


H  =  1407 


35 
3207 


45 
12007 


50^ 
19007 


where  the  corpuscles  in  the  ring  have  a  product  Hipi,  equal 
to  or  greater  than  the  product  HqPq  of  the  aurora  corpuscles. 

We  have  here  an  explanation  of  the  fact  that  such  aurorse 
must  be  accompanied  by  magnetic  storms.  The  action  H 
will  probably  be  concealed  behind  the  greater  disturbances 
caused  by  portions  of  the  corpuscular  system,  of  which  the 
ring  is  only  a  part. 

We  have  here  a  wide  field  for  investigation. 

16.  Research  based  upon  the  hypothesis  that  the  sun  is  sur- 
rounded by  a  magnetic  field^  and  that  the  corpuscles  are  in- 
fluenced by  gravitation,  pressure  of  light,  and  electrical  attraction 
to,  or  repulsion  from,  the  sun. 

As  already  pointed  out  in  the  introduction,  the  next  step 
in  auroral  research  would  be  to  substitute  for  hypothesis  II 
the  assumption  that  the  sun  is  surrounded  by  a  magnetic 
field. 

When  I  constructed  the  first  wire  models  of  the  trajectories 
through  the  origin,  in  1906,  I  was  even  then  struck  by  the 
resemblance  between  these  trajectories  and  the  swallow- 
tailed  streamers  of  the  solar  corona  during  years  of  minimum 
frequency  of  sun  spots.  I  did  not,  however,  follow  up  the 
suggestion  until  191 1,  when  I  published  a  note  on  the  solar 
corona,  accompanied  by  figures  of  wire  models  representing 
trajectories  of  electric  corpuscles  sent  out  normally  from  the 
surface  of  a  magnetic  sun.* 

*  See  "Sur  la  structure  de  la  couronne  du  soleil."  ("Comptes  Rendus,"  Paris, 
February  20,  191 1.) 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

We  reproduce  here  two  of  these  figures  (Figs.  30  and  31) 
to  show  the  resemblance  to  the  solar  corona  observed  on 
the  American  expeditions  *  (Figs.  32  and  33). 

For  details  the  reader  is  referred  to  the  note  in  question. 
One  point,  however,  may  be  mentioned.  If  we  succeed  in 
identifying  the  trajectories  with  corona  streamers,  this 
would  supply  a  method  of  finding  the  magnetic  moment  of  the 
sun,  if  we  know  the  product  Hp  of  the  corpuscles,  and  vice 
versa. 

On  the  other  hand,  a  detailed  study  of  the  trajectories  in 
the  sun's  equatorial  plane,  such  as  I  gave  in  §  20  of  my 
Geneva  paper  of  1907,  gives,  as  Professor  Birkeland  f  has 
pointed  out,  an  explanation  of  the  interval  of  about  forty 
hours  separating  the  passage  of  a  sun  spot  over  the  central 
meridian  of  the  sun's  disk,  and  a  subsequent  magnetic 
storm.  It  also  gives  a  relation  between  Hp  and  the  sun's 
magnetic  moment. 

Besides  the  hypothesis  of  a  magnetic  sun,  there  are  other 
assumptions  that  can  be  made.  According  to  the  auroral 
theory  of  Arrhenius,  for  instance,  the  sun  sends  out  small 
electrified  material  particles  of  about  one  ten-thousandth 
part  of  a  millimeter  pushed  away  by  the  pressure  of  light. 
As  Arrhenius  further  supposes  the  sun  to  be  magnetic  and 
to  have  an  electric  charge,  one  is  led  to  study  the  motion  of 
an  electrified  corpuscle  that  is  influenced  by  the  following 
forces : 

(i)  The  field  of  an  elementary  magnet, 

(2)  Gravitation, 

(3)  The  pressure  of  light,  and 

(4)  Electric  attraction  or  repulsion. 

*  Publications  of  the  United  States  Naval  Observatory,  Vol.  IV,  Appendix  I. 
t  See  "Comptes  Rendus,"  January  lo,  1910  (Dcslandres)  and  January  24,  1910 


(Birkeland). 


1:1026] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

The  last  three  forces  are  supposed  to  emanate  from  the 
elementary  magnet,  and  to  be  inversely  proportional  to  the 
square  of  the  distance. 

I  have  already  treated  this  problem  in  a  paper  *  published 
in  1907,  and  have  given  further  results  in  a  note  in  "  Comptes 
Rendus  "  f  in  191 1.     The  chief  results  are  here  given. 

If  we  put  the  origin  of  a  Cartesian  system  of  coordinates 
in  the  elementary  magnet  and  the  z-axis  along  its  axis,  the 
equations  of  motion  will  be 


2  V  r^   dt  r'       dtr^r^' 


df"  \      r'       dt        r'  dtJ     ^ r^' 


drz 

It 


-  V  r'     dt        r^    dt)        r'' 


where  M  is  the  moment  of  the  elementary  magnet,  and  X 
and  /A  are  constants  depending  on  the  intensity  of  the  acting 
forces  and  of  the  nature  of  the  corpuscle.  From  this  we  get 
the  two  first  inte2:rals, 


r 


and 


V  ^  -  ^,  ^  - 


fK- 


dt      ^  dt  r' 


where  v  is  the  velocity,  and  a  and  C  constants  of  integration. 

Let  Q  denote  the  angle  between  the  tangent  at  a  point  on 

the  trajectory,  and  the  plane  passing  through  that  point  and 

the  Z-axis ;   then  we  find  from  the  two  integrals  above,  that 


sin  d  = 


Rf-<Cr^-z^r 


* « 


Sur  un  problemc  relatif  au   mouvement  des  corpuscules   clectriques  dans 
Tespace   cosmique."     ("  Videnskabsselskabets    Skrifter,"    I,    1907;     Christiania.) 
t  Ac,  March  6,  191 1. 

1:10273 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

and,  as  we  have  seen  in  the  first  part  of  this  memoir,  the  fact 
that  sin  6  cannot  pass  beyond  the  interval  -  i  to  +  i  defines 
a  region  In  space    _^^    gr^-^XMR'    -^  ^ 

RrWCr^^  2^r 

out  of  which  the  trajectory  cannot  come,  a  circumstance 
which  is  extremely  useful  In  the  discussion  of  the  trajectories. 

I  treated  fully,  several  years  ago,  the  different  forms  of 
these  regions,  but  the  paper  has  not  yet  been  published.^  We 
can  have  regions  formed  like  hollow  rings  *  corresponding  to 
stable  trajectories  in  their  Interior.  At  the  limit  the  rings 
contract  into  circles  with  their  centers  on  the  Z-axIs  and 
situated  in,  or  parallel  with,  the  ZF-plane. 

These  circular  trajectories  were  found  directly  In  my 
paper  of  1907.     If  we  put 

X  =  To  cos  \f/o  cos  I ), 

\ro  cos  i/'o/ 

y  =  ro  cos  \l/o  sin  ( ), 

•^  \rn  cos  xl/Qy 

z  =  ros'm  ypQ 

in  the  equations  of  motion,  and  determine  the  constants 
ro,  1^0  and  v  so  that  the  equations  are  satisfied,  we  find, 

(i)  Circles  in  the  XY-plane  corresponding  to  the  condition 

vhl  +  /iro  +  \Mv  =  o,  and 

(2)  Circles   parallel   to  that  plane  corresponding   to  the 
conditions 


COSt/'( 


_     2  /x^ 


^o  =  - 


9  yMv" ' 

2ti 


3"^ 


*  See  also  my  two  notes  in  the  "Comptes  Rendus,"  Paris,  February  lo  and  17, 
1913- 


1:1028:1 


*  1 


I  I 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Here  /^  must  be  negative  and 

2  ^2  <  9  XMvs, 

In  a  note  of  March  6,  191 1,  I  have  further  shown  that  the 
differential  equations  can  be  reduced  to  the  following  system, 
in  analogy  to  what  is  found  in  the  case  of  motion  in  the  field 
of  an  elementary  magnet  alone. 


d'R  ^  I  dQ 

dt'      2  dR ' 


dtoJ   ^ 


dh^idQ 
dt^     2  dz^ 


where 


Q  -  C  -  ^  ^  -  (^^^  "^  XMg^Y 
r       \        Rr^         J 


This  system  can  be  interpreted  in  the  same  manner  as  that 
described  In  §  5,  which  gives  very  suggestive  methods  for 
discussing  the  trajectories.  When  R  and  z  are  found  from 
this  system,  then  the  rest  of  the  Integration  can  be  performed 
by  quadrature. 

In  the  XF-plane,  the  equations  of  the  trajectories  can  be 
found  by  elliptic  integrals;  for  when  R  and  0  are  polar 
coordinates  in  this  plane,  we  have 


d<l>  = 


aR  +  \M 


dR 


R       ^/CR'-2fiR'-(aR-h\My 


The  detailed  study  of  the  trajectories  seems  also  to  be  of 
Importance  for  the  cosmogony,  judging  from  a  recent  note 
by  Professor  Kr.  Birkeland.* 

We  have  here  a  field  which  well  repays  Investigation. 


41  Ul 


■  Sur  I'origine  des  planetes  et  des  satellites."  ("  Comptes  Rendus,"  November  4, 
191 2.  And  my  note,  "Remarque  sur  la  Note  de  M.  Kr.  Birkeland,"  etc.  (Ibid.] 
November  25,  1912.) 

D029:] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

17.  The  new  photographic  method  for  measuring  the  position 
and  altitude  of  aurora.  Some  of  the  results  obtained,  and  the 
conclusions  relative  to  the  nature  of  the  corpuscles  and  to  the 
composition  and  temperature  of  the  upper  air. 

In  order  to  obtain  an  objective  impression  of  the  auroral 
phenomena,  I  made,*  as  already  mentioned,  an  expedition  to 
the  well-known  place  Bossekop,  in  the  north  of  Norway, 
during  February  and  March,  1910.  My  purpose  was  to 
photograph  auroras  and  to  measure  their  altitude  by  obtain- 
ing parallactic  photographs  simultaneously  from  two  stations 
connected  by  telephone.  Both  purposes  were  accomplished 
with  entire  success. 

Previous  to  this,  the  only  photograph  of  aurora  with  an 
exposure  of  less  than  one  minute  was  one  taken  by  Brendel 
at  Bossekop  on  February  i,  1892.  It  represents  part  of 
an    auroral    curtain,   and    the  time   of  exposure  was  seven 

seconds. 

By  means  of  a  cinematographic  lens  (aperture,  25  milli- 
meters ;  focal  distance,  50  millimeters)  and  lumiere  etiquette 
violette  plates,  I  succeeded  in  reducing  the  time  of  exposure 
to  an  average  of  two  seconds,  sometimes  to  a  fraction  of  a 

second  only. 

The  complete  report  of  the  expedition  has  been  published 
in  "  Videnskabsselskabets  Skrifter,"  Christiania,t  so  that  it  is 
not  necessary  here  to  enter  into  details.  In  this  report  342 
photographs  of  aurora  are  reproduced  in  their  original  size 
of  4X  5  centimeters,  24  are  enlarged  to  11  X  15  centimeters, 
and  there  are  44  pairs  of  parallactic  photographs  taken 
simultaneously  from  the  two  stations,  Alten  church  and  Upper 
Alten  school,  4300  meters  apart.     (See  Plate  XXVI.     In  the 

*  As  assistant  I  had  the  Norwegian  meteorologist  Bernt  Johannes  Birkdand, 
member  of  Roald  Amundsen's  future  north  polar  expedition. 

t  "Bericht  uber  eine  Expedition  nach  Bossekop,"  etc.,  I.e.,  191 1. 

[1030] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

background  of  the  pictures  here  reproduced  we  have  the 
well-known  constellation  of  the  Great  Dipper,  and  the 
altitude  calculated  from  the  photographs  was  from  100 
to  120  kilometers.  For  the  details  we  refer  to  the  full 
report.) 

The  measurements  of  the  altitude  of  aurora  are  seen  graph- 
ically in  Fig.  34. 

We  see  that  most  of  the  altitudes  are  from  about  100  to 
120  kilometers,  and  that  the  inferior  limit  is  about  40  kilo- 
meters, the  superior  about  350. 

Parallactic  photographs  have  since  been  taken  simul- 
taneously in  Christiania  and  in  Aas  on  February  22  and 
April  8,  191 1,*  and  the  results  have  been  carefully  discussed 
in  my  Geneva  paper  of  1911-12.  We  give  here  the  two 
parallactic  photographs  reproduced  in  that  paper  from  the 
8th  of  April  at  II  h.  35  m.  30  s.  (Central  European  time). 
(See  Plate  XXVII.) 

The  aurora  appeared  as  beams  and  curtains,  and  in  the 
background  is  the  well-known  constellation  of  Perseus. 

The  great  beam  in  the  middle  reached  from  about  370 
kilometers  down  to  76  kilometers,  and  was  at  a  distance  of 
about  500  kilometers. 

The  measurements  of  the  altitude  of  the  aurora  on  April  8 
are  shown  graphically  in  Fig.  35. 

The  long  beams  are  here  represented  by  vertical  lines,  the 
lowest  limits  by  horizontal  short  lines,  and  other  calculated 
points  of  the  aurora  by  dots. 

In  the  photographic  method  of  measuring  the  altitude 
and  the  situation  of  the  aurora  we  have  for  the  first  time 
employed  an  altogether  objective  and  exact  method  of 
observing  this  phenomenon ;    and  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  its 

*  On  this  occasion  by  my  assistant  on  the  Bossekop  expedition,  the  meteorologist 
Bernt  Johannes  Birkeland,  and  an  assistant  at  Aas. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

systematic  use  will  soon  give  very  important  results.*  It  is 
especially  important  to  have  simultaneous  records  from 
series  of  stations  all  round  the  auroral  belts  in  the  arctic  and 
antarctic  regions  ;  for  many  of  the  auroral  phenomena,  such 
as  curtains  and  coruscations,  need  to  be  studied  at  several 
stations  simultaneously  along  the  auroral  belts. 

Parallactic  photographs  will  probably  also  yield  decisive 
data  relating  to  the  nature  of  the  corpuscles  and  to  that  of 

the  upper  air. 

In  some  previously  mentioned  papers  (see  §  14),  Pro- 
fessor Lenard  has  published  a  very  interesting  formula  for 
the  absorption  of  cathode  rays  and  ^-vays  when  they  come 
from  space  down  into  the  atmosphere.  He  supposes,  like 
Birkeland,  that  the  auroral  beams  in  the  curtains  are  formed 
by  negative  corpuscles  following  magnetic  lines  of  force, 
and  he  then  finds  the  following  law  of  absorption  : 

Let  /o  be  the  initial  intensity  of  the  beam  in  space  outside 
the  atmosphere,  and  let  /  be  the  intensity  at  a  height  of  h 
centimeters  above  the  earth's  surface,  then 


W  nat  -^  =  - — 
^  I      bco 


-bh 


cos  6 


where 


i  =  o. 1238X10 


-5 


and  where  6  is  the  angle  between  the  beam  and  the  vertical ; 
a  is  a  constant  depending  on  the  penetrative  power  of  the 
corpuscles.  In  estabhshing  this  formula,  Lenard  supposes 
the  composition  of  the  atmosphere  to  be  the  same  at  all 
altitudes,  as  also  the  mean  temperature.  He  then  finds 
the  following  diagram  for  the  absorption. 


*  After  having  finished  this  report  I  made  a  new  expedition  to  Bossekop  in  March, 
191 3,  accompanied  by  the  meteorologist  B.  T.  Birkeland.  We  secured  450  pairs  of 
parallactic  photographs  with  a  base  of  27  kilometers,  which  will  give  excellent 
results. 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

From  this  he  draws  the  conclusions  that  the  laws  of  ab- 
sorption of  cathode  rays  and  /3-rays  —  that  is  to  say,  of 
negatively  charged  corpuscles  —  agree  well  with  the  auroral 
phenomena,  and  that  the  assumed  jS-rays  corresponding  to 
the  lower  limit  of  altitude,  40  kilometers,  must  be  a  more 
penetrating  kind  than  those  observed  up  to  that  moment.* 
On  the  other  hand,  the  fact  that  aurora  have  been  measured 
and  found  to  have  an  altitude  of  more  than  350  kilometers 
gives  him  a  proof  that  the  air  in  this  region  must  consist  of 
very  light  gases,  especially  hydrogen,  a  conclusion  which  is 
in  accordance  with  the  calculations  of  the  composition  of 
the  air  at  different  altitudes  by  Hann,  Humphreys,  Jeans, 
and  Wegener,  t  He  indicates  finally  the  interest  in  calcu- 
lating the  laws  of  absorption  (especially  for  altitudes  of  over 
100  kilometers)  corresponding  to  the  occurrence  of  these 
light  gases. 

For  finding  these  new  formulae  of  absorption  It  Is  also 
necessary  to  know  the  variation  of  temperature  upward. 
Now,  as  I  have  explained  In  my  Geneva  paper  of  1911-12, 
the  auroral  beams  can  give  Information  regarding  the 
temperature ;  we  may  make  the  following  hypotheses  : 

(i)  The  atmosphere  above  100  kilometers  consists  of  pure 

hydrogen. 

(2)  Its  temperature  above  100  kilometers  Is  constant, 
equal  to  f  Centigrade. 

(3)  An  auroral  beam,  situated  entirely  In  the  region  above 


*  M.   Danysz   has   now   found    /3-rays   where  Hp  is   up   to   26,000.     See  his 
paper,  "Sur  les  rayons   ^  de  la  famille  de  radium."     ("Le  Radium,"  January, 

1912.) 

t  Hann,  "Das  Daltonsche  Gesetz  und  die  Zusammensetzung  der  Luft  in  grossen 
Hohen."     ("Zeitschrift  der  Oesterr.    Gesell.  f.  Meteorologie,"  1875.) 

Humphreys,  "Distribution  of  Gases  in  the  Atmosphere."  ("Bull,  of  the  Mt. 
Weather  Observ.,"  1910.) 

Jeans,  "Thermodynamics." 

Wegener,  "Thermodynamik  der  Atmosphare,"  6  Kapitel. 

1:1033:] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

loo    kilometers,  consists,  as    Lenard  supposes,  of   cathode 

rays  or  jS-rays  coming  down  in  straight  Hnes  along  lines  of 

magnetic  force. 

(4)  The  luminous  part  of  the  beam  corresponds  to  the  part 

where  the  intensity  diminishes  from  A  Jo  to  5/o,  A  being 

near  unity,  B  near  zero,  and  /o  being  the  initial  intensity. 

I  then  found  that 

1.03  L 


273+^  = 


-i,^j 


where  L  is  the  difference  of  altitude  of  the  upper  and  lower  end 
of  the  beam,  and  the  logarithm  is  the  Briggsian  with  base  10. 

In  other  words,  the  auroral  beams  may  serve  directly  as  a 
thermometer  for  the  upper  air. 

In  applying  this  formula  for  the  measured  auroral  beams 
on  the  8th  of  April,  191 1,  I  found  that 

/  =  —  1 50°  if  A  =  0.9    and  B  =  o.i, 
t=  —  2\i°  \i  A  =  0.99  and  ^  =  o.oi  ; 

that  is  to  say,  the  temperature  of  the  air  above  100  kilometers 
was  on  that  occasion  probably  between   —  1 50°  and  —  200°  C. 

I  also  calculated,  as  an  example  of  computation.,*  the  laws  of 
absorption  corresponding  to  the  assumptions  that 

t=  —     23°  at  altitudes  of  less  than  10  kilometers, 
t=  —     55°  at  altitudes  between  10  and  70  kilometers, 
/  =  —  175°  at  altitudes  of  more  than  70  kilometers  ; 

and  taking  the  composition  of  the  air  at  sea-level  used  by 
Wegener  t  as  my  starting  point,  I  then  obtained  the  following 
diagram  : 

*  For  more  exact  calculations  we  have  probably  to  suppose  the  change  of  tem- 
perature at  70-kilometer  level  less  sudden. 

t  Namely,  hydrogen,  0.0033  per  cent;  helium,  0.0005  ;  nitrogen,  78.1 ;  oxygen, 
20.9;  argon,  0.937.  We  have  not  taken  into  account  the  existence  of  the  hypothet- 
ical gas  "geocoronium,"  supposed  by  Wegener. 

[1034] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

From  this  it  will  be  seen  that  the  absorption  at  first  increases 
slowly  down  to  about  80  kilometers,  corresponding  to  the 
long  faint  auroral  beams.  It  then  increases  very  rapidly, 
which  may  explain  the  bright  lower  edge  of  the  auroral 
curtains  such  as  those  seen,  for  instance,  in  the  photograph 
of  an  auroral  curtain  taken  in  Christiania  on  the  8th  of 
April,  191 1,  by  my  assistant  from  my  aurora  expedition, 
the  meteorologist  Bernt  Johannes  Birkeland  (see  Plate 
XXVIII). 

In  my  Geneva  paper  of  1907  I  made  the  computations 
corresponding  both  to  negative  corpuscles  like  cathode  rays 
and  /3-rays,  and  to  positively  charged  corpuscles  like  a-rays. 
This  latter  hypothesis  has  been  worked  out  by  Mr.  Vegard,* 
who  has  given  a  series  of  arguments  for  the  view  that  aurora 
is  due  to  a-rays.  The  well-defined  straight  beams  in  particu- 
lar, and  the  sharp  lower  edge  of  the  curtain,  are  in  his  opinion 
a  decisive  argument  in  favor  of  the  a-ray  hypothesis. 

It  would  be  very  interesting  to  work  out  the  absorption 
formulae  in  this  case,  and  compare  them  with  those  of 
negatively  charged  corpuscles. 

In  both  cases  the  parallactic  photographs  of  aurora, 
accompanied  by  photographs  of  the  spectrum,  seem  able  to 
give  fundamental  information  about  the  upper  air. 

Carl  St(^rmer. 

*  See  Philosophical  Magazine  for  February,  191 2. 


1:10353 


THE  GENERALIZATION  OF  ANALYTIC 

FUNCTIONS 

ON  THE  THEORY  OF  WAVES  AND  GREEN'S 

METHOD  * 


THE  GENERALIZATION  OF  ANALYTIC 

FUNCTIONSf 

INTRODUCTION 

THE  generalization  which  is  treated  in  the  following  pages 
has  already  been  the  subject  of  several  investigations 
of  mine,  in  the  first  place  in  several  notes,  published  in  the 
"Rendiconti"  of  the  Reale  Accademia  dei  Lincei,  then  in 
an  extended  memoir  which  appeared  in  the  "  Acta  Mate- 
matica."  Several  of  the  lectures  which  I  read  at  Stockholm 
were  also  devoted  to  this  subject.  And  it  is  now  my  pur- 
pose, in  returning  to  it,  to  consider  the  general  case  in  some 
detail,  beginning  with  the  first  foundations.  In  treating 
the  general  case  it  is  necessary  to  consider  certain  elements, 
which  I  have  called  functions  of  hyperspaces,  and  which 
represent  extensions  of  the  functions  of  curves  that  I  have 
already  treated  several  times,  in  particular,  in  a  recent  course 
at  the  Sorbonne. 

A  space  of  n  dimensions  contains  spaces  of  o,  i,  2,---  n—  i 
dimensions,  and  for  that  reason  we  consider  functions  of 

*  Three  lectures  presented  at  the  inauguration  of  the  Rice  Institute,  by  Senator 
Vito  Volterra,  Professor  of  Mathematical  Physics  and  Celestial  Mechanics  in  the 
University  of  Rome. 

t  Translated  from  the  Italian  by  Professor  Griffith  Conrad  Evans,  of  the  Rice 
Institute. 

1:10363 


/^V^^ir^i^^^^^^^^ 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

these  spaces.  We  shall  begin  by  extending  to  these  functions 
the  fundamental  concepts  of  continuity  and  differentiation, 
and  we  shall  consider  the  condition  that  a  function  be  of  the 
first  degree.  This  condition  depends  upon  an  extension  of 
Stokes's  theorem.  We  shall  then  consider  a  relation  between 
these  functions  analogous  to  that  of  monogeneity,  which  for 
functions  in  the  ordinary  sense  was  established  by  Cauchy. 
This  leads  to  new  types  of  equations  with  functional  deriva- 
tives, which  present  analogies  with  the  equation  of  Laplace. 

We  can  separate  the  functions  with  which  we  are  dealing 
into  elementary  and  otherwise.  The  former  have  interesting 
properties  and  applications.  A  certain  operation  of  composi- 
tion turns  out  to  possess  quite  curious  arithmetical  properties. 

We  shall  finally  develop  the  operations  of  differentiation 
and  integration,  and  the  extension  of  Cauchy's  theorem  in 
complete  generality. 

THE  GENERALIZATION  OF  ANALYTIC  FUNCTIONS 


First  Lecture 
General   observations   on   hyperspaces  —  general   formulae   for 

MATRICES,  and  RELATIONS-BETWEEN  THE  DIRECTION  COSINES  OF  HYPER- 
SPACES—  FUNCTIONS  OF  HYPERSPACES  AND  THEIR  DERIVATIVES  —  EX- 
TENSION OF  STOKEs's  THEOREM  —  CONDITIONS  WHICH  THE  DERIVATIVES 
OF  FUNCTIONS  OF  HYPERSPACES  MUST  SATISFY,  AND  FORMULA  FOR 
THE  TRANSFORMATION  OF  COORDINATES  —  ISOGENEITY  —  CONDITIONS 
FOR   ISOGENEITY. 

I.    General  observations  on  hyperspaces 

I.  A  hyperspace  (space  of  n  dimensions)  will  be  character- 
ized by  the  multiplicity  of  values  of  n  independent  variables 
Xi,  X2,'"Xn^  A  hyperspace  S,  of  r  dimensions  (r<n),  con- 
tained in  it,  will  correspond  to  the  multiplicity  of  values 
which  the  Xi^  x^,  -"  Xn  assume  when  they  are  constrained 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


by  n—  r  independent  relations,  or  in  other  words,  when  they 
depend  on  r  independent  variables  oji,  a;2,---  a>,  to  which  they 
are  bound  by  the  n  relations 

X2  =  X2{0)„    (O.,, 


(I) 


r  =  T  (co,    (o.,    •••  o)  ^ 


We  assume  the  differentiability  of  the  preceding  relations, 

and  obtain 

(2)  dx,=  j;^pd<c,  (z=i,  2,  ...n). 


1  '  d^s 


Let  us  consider  the  matrix 

dx,  dXo       dXn 


(3) 


m      111  —  ■     ■  **        •     •     • 


Let  A-  be  the  square  of  this  matrix,  and  let  us  assume  that 
if  the  sign  of  A  is  given  at  one  point,  it  is  fixed  by  continuity 
at  all  other  points.  When  the  sign  of  A  is  given  we  shall 
say  that  the  direction  of  the  hyperspace  S,  is  fixed.     The 

quantity  dSr  =  ^do:,do:,  -- do^, 

will  be  called  the  element  o]  the  hyperspace. 

Let  us  take  a  minor  determinant  of  the  matrix  (3) 


Milj-<r  = 


•  • 

dx^  dx^ 


dXjr 

dXi, 


1:1038: 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


and  write 

(4) 


^<i<2  -ir 


^Ui2 


ir. 


The  at^t,...ij.  will  not  change  if  we  substitute  for  the  ooi, 
(02,  •••  c*>r  other  variables  bound  by  arbitrary  relations  to 
the  first,  and  their  signs  will  change  only  if  we  change  the 
sign  of  the  hyperspace;  we  shall  call  them  the  direction 
cosines  of  the  hyperspace.  We  see  at  once  that  they  must 
satisfy  the  relation 
(A)  2<a?,<,  ...,,=  I, 

in  which  2^  denotes  summation  extended  over  all  the  com- 
binations of  the  indices  z'l,  4,  z„. 

3.  If  a  space  S„_^  has  a  point  in  common  with  S„  and  the 
direction  cosines  of  S^-r  are  denoted  by  ^h^...h„_„  we  shall  say 
that  the  two  hyperspaces  are  normal  to  each  other  when  we 
have  the  relation 

where  all  the  z's  are  different  from  the  A's,  and  the 
series  of  numbers  Ziig,  •••  ir,  Ai,  h-^,  •••  /z„_;.  is  a  permutation 
of  the  numbers  i,  2,  •••  n,  which  is  always  odd  or  always 
even. 

4.  Whatever  /  may  be,  we  can  wTite 

/   \      '        V--     ^  d{ Xi ,  Xi  '• '  Xi     ) 

is)  d'-'i  =  \A„ ... ..-, -ir    '    '      •'         '  '       T  il=i,2,-r) 


d{(o„ 


a>,  jft),^, 


r) 


in  which  the  sum  is  extended  over  all  the  combinations  of 
the  indices  Zi,  Z2*"^r-i)  ^^^  the  A^s  are  certain,  in  part 
indeterminate,  infinitesimal  parameters.  In  fact  if  we 
form  the  matrix  of  the  coefficients  of  the  A^s,  among 
its  minors  will  be  found  the  r  —  ith  powers  of  the  mi- 
nors of  the  matrix  (3),  and  so  not  all  the  minors  of  that 
matrix   can    be  zero.     If  we   substitute    the  values    (5)    in 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


the  equations  (2)  we  obtain 
(6) 


j^  _      y  d{x,,  Xt^'-  Xt^_^)   J 

ax,  -  —^i      ?i_-  ^<j<j ...  ^_j. 


Hence  if  fl<,. «,  ...<,_!  =  -^A<,".<r-i  we  shall  have 

5.  Besides  the  equations  (A)  the  a  satisfy  other  relations, 
which  we  shall  find  in  the  next  section. 

2.    General  Jormulce  about  matrices.     Relations  between  the  di- 
rection cosines  of  a  hyperspace 

I.  We  shall  establish  in  this  section  several  fundamental 
formulae  regarding  the  minors  of  matrices,  which  we  shall 
often  have  occasion  to  use.      Let  us  consider  the  two  ma- 


trices 


(I) 


an     ai2 
(hi     ^2 


a 


In 


a 


2n 


a 


n 


«r2   •••   <^ 


m 


(2) 


an     a\2 
(hi     (^22 


(^pl        (^p2 


(^2n 


•  • 


a 


pn 


the  first  with  r  rows,  and  the  second  with  p  rows, 
(n>r>p),  both  however  with  the  same  elements.  Let  us 
write 


.     .     • 

•                • 

^ 

^U'f*r' 

• 

•      •      •      • 

=  ^/.A- 

"hj, 

and  consider 

^H,       ^si. 

•  ••  a^ 

A,= 

•        •        • 

"'   (^u 
... 

=  0 

(j=I,  2 

,  •••  p). 

^rt,        ( 

\ 

•••     (^H    ^ 

[1040] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

We  shall  have 


1   s 


da 


sh. 


P    r) /?  '•+1 

•  1  O^lh. 


From  this  it  follows  that 


(3) 


r+1 


ZiS    ^^'^h-h-ih+i-'h-\-i^h\-^p  ~ ^' 


2.  This  is  the  formula  which  we  wished  to  obtain.  In 
particular,  if  we  take  as  identical  the  two  matrices  (i)  and 
(2),  we  shall  have 


(3') 


r+l 


Among  these  equations  let  us  notice  specially  the  follow- 
ing, from  which  the  others  all  follow  : 

(4)  O  =  -^VA  ••''r-2A<A-^-2  +  A<2^-^    2^^^" -^-2 

+  AVi-^-2Av'r  •''r-2-t 

3.    From  the  preceding  formulae  we  see  that  the  direction 
cosines  of  a  hyperspace  must  satisfy  the  relations 


(B) 


r+l 


S/     ^^'^V2-^.-iWi-Wi^^A-^  =  O- 


*  Vedi  Antonelli:   "Nota  sulle  relazioni  Indipendenti"  ecc.     ("Ann.  d.  Scuola 
Normale  sup.  di  Pisa,"  Vol.  Ill,  page  71  e  seg.) 
t/^i^.,  page73. 

1:1041] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

3.    Functions  of  hypers  paces  and  their  derivatives'^ 

I.  A  variable  0  will  be  said  to  be  a  function  of  the  hyper- 
space  Sr  (of  r  dimensions)  or  a  function  of  order  r,  if  to  every 
possible  hyperspace  with  fixed  direction  corresponds  a  value 
of  cj).  This  correspondence  will  be  denoted  by  means  of 
the  symbol  </>  =  0  |  [SJ  |.  We  shall  assume  that  we  are  deal- 
ing only  with  closed  hyperspaces  S^.f 

Let  us  take  a  point  P  of  S,  and  through  it  draw  a 
hyperspace  S„_,  normal  to  S„  taking  in  S„.,  a  small  neigh- 
borhood s  of  P.  If  we  make  P  describe  all  the  points 
of  Sr  we  shall  generate  a  portion  of  n-dimensional  space, 
which  we  shall  call  a  neighborhood  of  S,.  While  P  is 
describing  S,  any  other  point  P'  of  s  describes  a  new  hyper- 
space S'r,  which  we  shall  say  belongs  to  the  neighborhood 
of  S,.  The  function  </>  |  [SJ  |  will  be  said  to  be  continuous 
if,  when  we  take  a  quantity  o"  arbitrarily  small,  we  can  find 
a  neighborhood  of  S,  such  that 

mod  [cl>\[sr']\-<t>\[Sr]\]<^, 

where  SI  belongs  to  that  neighborhood. 

Besides  the  continuity  of  </>  1[SJ  |  let  us  admit  also  the 
following  property.  Let  us  pass  from  the  hyperspace  S,  to 
the  hyperspace  SI  by  giving  to  each  point  of  S,  a  displace- 
ment €  which  varies  continuously  from  point  to  point.  The 
displacement  e  generates  a  hyperspace  S^+i  of  r+  i  dimen- 
sions, of  amplitude  say,  (t.  We  shall  assume  that  we  can 
make  \<t>  \[Sr\  \-(t>\  [SJ  \\  less  than  a  number  chosen  arbi- 
trarily small,  provided  a  be  less  than  some  value  o-q. 

2.  With  this  understood,  take  in  S,  a  neighborhood  s  of 
a  point  P,  and  give  to  j  a  displacement  dxi  parallel  to  Xi. 

*  Vedi  la  mia  Nota  I :  "Sulle  funzioni  dipendenti  da  linee."  ("Atti  d.  R.  Ace 
d.  Lincei,"  Vol.  Ill,  fasc.  9.)  .     .„ 

tVedi:    Betti:    "Sopra  gli  spazil  di  un  numero  qualunque  di  dimension!. 

(Annali  di  Mat.,  T.  IV.) 

[1042;] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Let  us  denote  by  50  the  corresponding  variation  of  <f),  and  let 
us  suppose  that  the  value 

lim     ^^ 


s:% ' '  ^''i 


=  0Xi 


(z=  I,  2,  ...n) 


exists.  We  shall  call  this  the  derivative  of  0  with  respect  to  Xi 
at  the  point  P,  With  the  assumption  that  the  ratio  which 
appears  in  the  left-hand  member  approaches  its  limit  uni- 
formly, with  respect  to  all  possible  points  P  and  hyperspaces 
S„  and  that  this  limit  is  continuous,  we  can  easily  verify 
the  fact  that  if  we  give  to  every  point  of  S,  a  displacement 
of  components  5^i,  bx^^--- Sxn,  the  corresponding  variation 
of  0  is  given,  except  for  infinitesimals  of  higher  order,  by  the 
formula 

(i) 


3.  Let  us  find  out  now  what  conditions  the  </)i.  must 
satisfy.  If  the  displacements  are  such  as  to  carry  the  space 
Sr  into  Itself,  the  quantity  b(j>  must  vanish.  Hence  we  must 
have  50  =  o  if  we  take  (see  §  i,  form  7) 


bx^  =2^;i,ft,..ft^_,Qrfft, 


V-l 


whatever  the  quantities  a  may  be.     Hence 
and  from  this  we  have 

n 
1 

for  every  possible  combination  of  the  indices  A2  •••  A^_i. 
4.    Since  now  the  a  satisfy  the  relations  §  2,  (B),  we  have 

r+t 
1 

1:10433 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

If  we  multiply  this  by  an  undetermined  parame- 
ter X,,...,  J  which  satisfies  the  condition  that  it  changes 
sign  for  every  transposition  of   the  indices,  we  shall  have 


n 
i 

and  subtracting  this  from  equation  (2), 


whence 

(3) 


(t>n  —  ^q^iQ^-Qr^Q^Qi-ar 


From  this  it  follows  that 


r     1     i  Q 


f  r-«-l 


%y  Sj.  I      1 


^QiQi--it-\^t+ 


^...,,jxAdS,. 


Consider  now  the  elements  dS,  and  suppose  drawn 
through  every  point  of  it  a  segment  of  components 
bxi-bx„.  The  locus  of  these  segments  will  be  a  space 
S.,  of  r+i   dimensions.     If  the  equations  of  the  hyper- 

r+ 1 

space  Sr  are 

x^  =  x\{coi,o)2,  •••ft),)  (i  =  I,  2,  •••  n) 

the  equations  of  the  hyperspace  S,+i  will  be 

;c,  =  A:,(ft)i,  0)2, '"CO,) +  co^+Mi  0*=  ^'  2'  •••^)- 

*  See  my  Note  II :   "Sulle  funzloni  dipendenti  da  linee."     ("Atti  della  R.  Ace. 
dei  Lincei,''  Vol.  Ill,  fasc.  10.) 

[10443 


i 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


Let  us  form  the  matrix 

dXi      6x2       dx, 


(4) 


-  —  ••• 

dco^  dcoi        dcoi 

dxi  6x2        dx. 

dcOj.  dcOj.        dcOj. 

dxi,  dx2  •••  dx„ 


Let  us  denote  its  square  by  A^^j,  and  the  square  of  the 
matrix  obtained  from  it  by  taking  away  the  last  line  by  A,^ 
We  shall  have 


f  r+i 


We  can  fix  the  direction  of  S,^,  with  respect  to  S,  in  such  a 
way  that 


A,„=(-oA^/2;^|/-T)'-c.,...,.,, 


l-(lr+l^^<it 


where  the  sign  of  the  radical  is  taken  as  positive.  If  now 
we  denote  the  direction  cosines  of  S,^,  by  /?,,,,..., ^^^,  which 
are  calculated  from  the  matrix  (4),  we  shall  have  finally 


60=  J     V 


lPQiQ2---9r+l     ^■*-^' 


m2---Qr+i^^QiQ2---9T+ 


Hence  if  S,  is  a  movable  hyperspace  which  passes  from  S^  to 
S'J,  thus  generating  a  S^+u  we  shall  have 


(5) 


dS 


Q\Q2—  Qr+i*^Qi<l2  ■■•  Qr^i^^r+\' 


It  is  well  to  note  explicitly  that  besides  varying  from  point 
to  point  of  the  total  hyperspace  (of  n  dimensions),  the 
parameters  X  may  also  vary  for  one  and  the  same  point 
according  to  the  hyperspace  to  which  they  refer,  and  even 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

for  the  same  hyperspace  one  set  of  X's  may  be  substituted 
for  another  provided  the  relations  (3)  are  always  satisfied. 

5.  A  function  </>  1[SJ  |  will  be  said  to  be  regular  (or  simple) 
when  the  following  condition  is  satisfied.  Let  SJ  and  S'J 
be  two  hyperspaces  having  a  common  portion  s,  whose 
direction  is  different  according  as  it  is  considered  as  belonging 
to  the  first  or  the  second  hyperspace.  Denote  by  S'J'  the 
hyperspace  which  we  get  by  taking  away  s  from  the  combina- 
tion of  S;  and  S'^'  and  fix  as  its  direction  the  direction  of 
those  two  hyperspaces.     We  impose  the  condition 

cA|[sni  =  0'[s;]i  +  «!m|. 

When  (f)  IS  regular  it  follows  immediately  that  if  S,  de- 
creases indefinitely  in  amplitude 
(C)  lim</)|[S,]|=o. 

We  have  then  immediately  the  further  property  that  if  Sr  and 
Sr  are  two  hyperspaces  with  a  common  point  P,  whose  ele- 
ments at  P  are  contained  in  a  single  S,+i,  of  r-j-i  dimensions, 

where  X  and  V  are  the  parameters  which  correspond  to 
(t>\[Sr]\  and  0|[S;]i  at  the  point  P,  and  the  /3's  are  the  direc- 
tion cosines  of  S^+i- 

Upon  this  basis  let  us  consider  a  hyperspace  S,  passing 
through  the  point  P,  whose  element  at  P  is  defined  by  the 

equations  r 

dXi  =  ^  a  Joy,  (z=  i,  2,  •••n) 

1 
and  let  S^^'"'^''^^^'"'^^'^  denote  hyperspaces  passing  through  P 

defined  by  the  equations 

J  J  =  I,  2,  •••  r 

si=.  hi,  hi  '"hp. 
(£•=  hi,  h  •••  hj„  r-1- 1,  •••  n.) 


[1046] 


'$ 


■> 


% 


'^ 


% 


:"! 


i 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

In  particular  let  us  consider  the  hyperspaces  S"^  "^-i'«+i-Wi' 
and  S?^-^^-i^^+i-V+i)  whose  elements  at  P  are  contained  in  a 
hyperspace  of  7^+  i  dimensions,  of  which  the  direction 
cosines  ^  are  zero,  except  ^i^i^...i^^,  =  1.  By  means  of  (6),  we 
have 


hh'"h+' 


iiV  ■■  V+l 


where  the  indices  z'l^  •••  ir  denote  the  parameters  X  corre- 
sponding to  the  hyperspace  S^'^-'n\  Therefore  we  can 
suppress  the  indices  and  write  simply 


(7) 


X;i"-''s-l's+l-ir^r  =  A. 


hh-ff-^l 


1,1 


i'2  ■■■  V+1 


6.  Two  hyperspaces  SJ^i""*''^^^-^2'-i^  and  SJ^-v^*r"V  have 
elements  at  P  which  are  contained  in  a  S^+i,  whose  element  at 
P  is  defined  by  the  equations 


j=  I,  2,  ••.  r 
s  ^hu  ho,  •••  hp 


dx.    = 


h  -^ 


p 

Hence,  if  we  denote  by  /5  the  direction  cosines  of  Sr+i  and 
by  q;«x-V(*i-V  the  direction  cosines  of  SJ<'-'^^^^>- V,  vve 
shall  have 


K 


miTn2  ••■  TTi- 


(h-  i.)(hi  ...h) 


=  IC. 


a 


mim-i  •-.  rrij. 


where  k  is  independent  of  the  indices  Wi,  Wg,  •••  w„  and  all 
the  /3's  are  zero,  in  the  indices  of  which  4  is  missing.  From 
this  it  follows  by  reason  of  (6)  that 


X 


(U  ■■•1j.)(fi:  -hp) 


Tn\     ^hp"^i  —  ^T 


-X 


(h  -  ij.)(fll ...  hp_l)\   dl 


v^ 


TO. 


a 


TOi 


^^)(^i  -  Zip) 


=0, 


i:io47n 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

where  the  Index  (h  -"  tr)(hi  •"  hp),  afBxed  to  the  X,  means 
that  refers  to  the  hyperspace  having  the  same  index.  We 
have  then 


^         (h  ■■■  V(fti  •••  V      ^1  -  ir^(hi  -  ftp)        yr^         (h  •••  ir)(f>i 


a 


ffii  •••  m. 


in    which,    by    means    of    (3),    we    can    substitute    for   the 
\m,..m,  the     \^^^:..^^     ^S    and     consequently,     the 

Af^  m,  ...m^  of  formula  (7). 


(ii-<r)«i  •••</?) 


is 


We  observe  however  that  the  hyperspace  S/" 
nothing  but  the  hyperspace  S„  and  therefore  we  can 
take  for  the  X's  belonging  to  this  space,  at  the  point  P, 
the  X's  without  Index  of  formula  (6).  We  have  then  the 
theorem 

//  0  is  a  regular  function  of  the  hyperspace  S^y  contained 
i?i  a  hyperspace  Sn,  there  exist  for  every  point  of  Sn  a 
system  of  values  which  can  he  considered  as  the  parameters 
\t2-ir^i  for  all  the  hyperspaces  Sr  which  pass  through  that 
point. 

7.  From  the  equations  (5)  (C),  assuming  that  0  j  [Sr]  \  is 
regular  we  get, 

5')        <t>\[Sr]\=S,   2  A 


V    1 


^QiQt  •••  ffr+l^<?i<?2  •••  <?r+l     "^r+l 


Here  Sr+i  is  an  arbitrary  hyperspace  of  r+i  dimensions, 
whose  boundary  is  S;..  If  Sr^i  grows  indefinitely  smaller 
about  a  point  P,  by  writing 

we  shall  have 

rf)  !  IS"  1  ! 

where  the  ^  are  the  direction  cosines  of  Sr+i  at  P. 

1:10483 


UiQ2  •••  ffr+1  ~  JO 


m 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Let  us  take  S,+i  =  S^^;V"*^+i^  such  that  at  P  all  the  direction 
cosines  ^  shall  be  zero  except  0ui2-ir+i  =  '^'     We  shall  have 


1 .  0      [o  J  A 

Qiuu.  ■■■  tJ._^.l) 


Therefore  we  shall  write 

Aiiij 


d(t) 


r+l 


d{Xi,x\"-x..y 


and  define  this  quantity  as  the  derivative  of  </>  with  respect  to 
XiXi^  •••  x^^^^.  What  relations  must  these  derivatives  satisfy  ? 
Before  proceeding  to  the  search  for  these  relations,  it  will 
be  necessary  to  give  an  extension  of  Stokes's  theorem,  a 
subject  which  is  dealt  with  in  the  next  section. 

4.    Extension  of  Stokes^s  theorem 

I.  Let  Lii^.i^  be  functions  of  the  points  of  the  hyper- 
space S„,  such  that  every  transposition  of  the  indices  creates 
a  change  of  sign,  and  form  the  expression 


(I) 


1  ^-^  u 


Let  S;.+i  be  a  hyperspace,  of  r+i  dimensions,  bounded 
by  a  set  of  hyperspaces  S;.,  let  its  direction  cosines  be 
o-uir-ifJti^  and  form  the  expression 


r+l 


putting 


^  -^i^^^V2-'r+l^Ve-<r+r 


If  the  equations  of  Sr^^  are 


C 10493 


(t=  I,  2,  ..•  n). 


-'— ^■"■-•^    - 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


we  shall  have 


do) 


r+l 


^  dLi  ...i    ,t  ^,...i  ^,d(XiXi  '"  Xi    X.      '"  Xi    ,) 

S  n      '5-1's+l      'r  +  l      ^    ^s    M  ^s-l    »«+l  '■T+V 


X 


dx, 

*■  c 


d{(jOio:2  •••  cO;.+i) 


_  ^  d(Li^...i^,  x^Xf^  •••  Xt^) 


duido^'z  '"  doir^i. 


=  X 


dioji,  ojo,  •••  o:,^i) 


dooidooo  •••  doo 


r+l 


VV{      ,y-i^^ir-ir            d(xi  •••  x^^ 
=  ZiiZit\~  I J      — ^ -J7-. ~ — ~ aoiidoi2  '"  dcor+i. 


doit     ^(^1  •••  ^t-i^m  •••  ^V-i 


Hence 


X 


s 
r+l 


n^s.^i 


r+l 


^K^l/'-ATf^) 


=J^^2„2„A,.V..V j^-^^;;^^a,,  ■■■dcc,_,dw„,  -dec,,,. 

We  can  make  the  hyperspace  S  depend  on  r  independent 
parameters  coi,  C02  •••  w„  whence  we  shall  have 

J       ^dSr+i  =j   2/v"-  <r  jr~'  -' ^^  dZ^ido^i  •••  doir- 


From  this  comes  the  formula 

(2)       J  Z<-'^^,,<,...V+i<^M2-V+l^'^^+l  ^Jo  ^i^i;h--iAA-ir^^^ 


r> 


>  +  l 


where  the  /3's  are  the  direction  cosines  of  the  hyperspace  S;.. 
2.    From  these  formulae  it  follows  that  if 


ll^^A,V-vftxV-*r^^  =  0, 


1:1050] 


m 


for  every  closed  hyperspace  S,  in  the  region  S„,  the  neces- 
sary and  sufficient  conditions  that  must  be  satisfied  are 


(3) 


^..vw.=i:,(-ir 


dL 


^  ■  •  -^s-iWi  —  Wi 


=  o 


for  every  combination  of  the  indices  fiZ2  •••  ^r+i- 

5.    Conditions   zvhich   the   derivatives  of  functions   of  hyper- 
spaces  must  satisfy.     Formulae  for  the  change  of  coordinates 

I.  Let  0|[SJ|be  regular,  and  return  to  formula  (5O  of 
section  3.  Since  the  integral  which  appears  in  the  right- 
hand  member  does  not  change  when  S^+i  changes,  provided 
the  boundary  Sr  does  not  change,  we  must  have 

J„    _^  Z^/V,--«?r+l^ffi<72-*r+l^'^''+l  =  ° 


when  the  integration  is  extended  over  any  closed  hyper- 
space S^+i.  Hence  the  necessary  and  sufficient  conditions 
which  the  A  must  satisfy  in  order  to  be  the  derivatives  of 
a  regular  function  of  hyperspaces  Sr  (see  section  4,  article 
2)  is 

'■■♦-2  f)A.      ...4  4  ,     ...i       ,,, 

(D)         i;  (-')'"     ax      ^° 


for  every  possible  combination  of  the  indices  iiZ2  •"  V+2- 
We  can  write  these  equations,  making  use  of  the  symbols 
of  section  3,  article  7,  in  the  form 


r+2 


dcj) 


-  =  O. 


We  shall  call  these  conditions  the  conditions  of  integr ability. 

2.    Consider  now  the    formulae    for    change   of   variable, 

transforming  the  variables  Xu  ^2  •••  ^n  ii^^o  x'l,  x^  •••  ^n  by 


".,  ;  '-^-  ■**-»■    *__ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

means  of  the  relations 

x'i  =  x[(xi,  X2,  •"  Xn)  ({=  I,  2,  •••  n) 

1     1                               d(xi.  Xo  •"  x„) 
such  that  \^^—^ "^ 

a[Xi,  X'l   •••  Xn) 

is  always  finite  and  different  from  zero.  Let  us  consider 
two  regions  which  correspond  in  a  one-to-one  manner,  S„ 
and  S'n,  one  belonging  to  the  first  set  of  variables,  the  other 
to  the  second.  Let  S,+i  be  a  hyperspace,  bounded  by  S,  and 
contained  in  S„,  and  let  S^+i,  bounded  by  S^,  correspond  to  it 
in  Sn.     If  we  suppose  that  S^^^  is  given  by  the  equations 

;v,  =  ;v« (ajia;2  •••  co,+i)  (i  =  I,  2  •••  ;i), 

we  shall  have 

0|[SJi 


r+l 


S 


do)\do22  "'  do: 


r+l 


^j;";--"';-±ij  ^K:::^  ^^,^...^^,  ^_ 


^<5(a'^^  •••  x^^^^)  ^hd{x'n^  •••  ^;^^^)  J(coi  •••  aj,+i) 


=X,.,2 


^(^\--^\+l) 


2:, 


dcf)         d(Xi 


^'^^-^^  ^, 


'^  d(wi  •••  co,+i)  ^^aC'v,^-.-^,^^^)  ^(^v--^;^^j) 


coi  •••  aa; 


r+l 


where  the  /3'  denote  the  direction  cosines  of  Sr+i. 
If  we  write 

we  shall  have 


whence 


r+l       ^ 

d(j> 


'^'^.+1) 


2'-"r+ 


ja6;.+i. 


a; 


ft.  ••'ir+l 


D052] 


•4 


1 

.i^. 

I 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

The   desired    formulae    for    the    transformation   of    coordi- 
nates become  then 


(I) 


d<l> 


d(f> 


ciyXiXi^ 


V+l^ 


d{XnX'n^  •••  ^i,+i)  ~  ^id{xiX^^  •••  x^^^^)  d{xnX^^  '"^'n,^-^ 


3.    If  we  multiply  the  preceding  equations  by 

^K+2^^+3-^0 

and  add  them,  for  all  values  of  the  A's,  we  shall  have 


__     ^fer+2^^r^3  •"  ^0 

'^d(x'^x',^_  •••  xU  ^(^l,+2^l+3  •••  ^\) 


d(f> 


d(XiX2  •"  Xn) 


d{x,x,^  •••  -^.,+1)  d{x[x2  •••  A-;) 
where 

the  notation  being  used  to  denote  the  fact  that  the  groups 
of  the  A's  and  of  the  j's  are  two  even  permutations  of  the 
first  m  integers.     Hence 

d(l) 


(2)    . 


^K^\-"^Vi) 


d(l> 


d{x.x, 


«r+2    «r+3 


^J 


d{x^X2  '"  Xr,)'^^d{x'f,xl  '•'  4,.,i)  ^C'^i+2'^ir+3  *  *  * '^U  ' 

4.    By  means  of  the  equations  (D'),  which  are  satisfied 


dcj) 


by  the  functions  -- 

d(x,  '"  Xs    J 

satisfied    by   the    functions 
theorem  : 


,  and  the  analogous  equations 


dcj) 


we   obtain   the 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

If  the  quantities  ^i^t^-.t,^-^  {which  change  sign  for  every  trans- 
position in  the  indices)  satisfy  the  equations 


(3) 


'■+2  dai  ...f    ,<  ^,  ...i  ,., 


dxi 


=  o 


/A^  quantities  ^^2-^+1  ^^'"''^^  ^^  the  for  mules 


r+2    ''r+.S 


JC\-i  •••  X^ 


V+1 


\    V+2    V+3  'n^ 


^(Xi  '"  X^) 

(ii,  i'l  '•'  in)  =  (hi,  h  '"  A„)  =  (i,  2,  ..•  n) 
will  satisfy  the  analogous  equations 


(3  0 


^^i. 


=  o. 


5.    Let  us  write 


a0 


^K*"^wi) 


=  <2 


<r-<r+i* 


We  wish  to  show  that  if  the  following  conditions  are  satisfied 

r+2 

(4)  ^  {-'^y  ai,...i^_^i^_^_^...ir+2ai^f,,...h,  =  o 


and  we  make  a  change  of  variables  from  the  x^,  X2  •••  x^ 
to  the  :vl,  X2,  •••  ;>^i,  we  shall  obtain  the  result  that  the 
quantities 

r 

^\  -  ftr+1  = 


d(t) 


^(^1.    •••'^'^r+l) 


will  satisfy  the  analogous  equations 


(4') 


1 

1:1054] 


I 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

In  fact  If  we  have  the  relations   (4),  the  a^....^^^^  will  be 
minor  determinants  of  a  matrix 

^1.1         ^1.2  '"  ^^X,n 


^r+l.l^r+1,2  •••  ^r+l.n 


that  IS,  we  can  write 


^i,-Wi 


-^l.<i     •••    ^l.<r+l 


5                                                                        • 
1 

^T+X,tr"^r^X,i 

If  we  write 

v+1 


we  shall  have,  by  means  of  (i),  the  equations 


^hi-f'r-^U^i 


X, 


u±  1     <     •  •  •    ^J.  1     f     ,  1 


Jjhih  '"  J^hi.ir+l 


Bh,^l,ix  '"  ^hr^^.ir+1 


that  Is,  If  we  define  ^s^is^hs=(^ihj  the  relations 

^hi---^r+X  ~      p  C 

In  other  words,  the  quantities  ^ii ...  h^^^  are  minor  determinants 

of  the  matrix 

Cii  C12  •••  Cm 

^21  ^22    •••    ^2» 


(-•r+l,  l^r-^1,2    ••*    ^r+l.n! 


and  so  the  equations  (4O  will  be  satisfied. 

When  the  equations  (4)  are  satisfied,  the  function  0J  [SJ  | 
is  said  to  be  elementary  (see  §§  10,  14). 

1:10553 


■4 


.  -"*,    .•■  ^^i*Mi#M*  rfS. 


ey»  ^■'■■ii^:mm»xai^TjmJ&  ^^.  ■  -J*  .♦  .^--fc"* 


f^-W^S^Mfi*^' 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

6.  Isogeneity  * 

I.  Two  complex  functions  /,  0,  of  hyperspaces  S;.,  which 
are  regular^  are  said  to  be  isogenous  if  in  every  point  of  the 
total  hyperspace  5„,  the  ratio 

d<t) 

df 


dSr+i 

is  independent  of  the  hyperspace  .S. 

Separating  the  real  and  imaginary  parts,  let  us  write 


dcf) 


=  Pt,-ir^,  +  ^gi,.--t,^,  =  Pi  +  iqi 


where  /  denotes  the  set  of  indices  iii^  •••  Z;.+i,  that  is, 
I  =  (ii  •••  ir+i).  The  necessary  and  sufficient  condition  in 
order  that/  and  0  be  isogenous  may  be  written 


(I) 


Pi-^Qi      pH  +  iqH 


where  //=  {hji-i  •••  h^^^  is  another  arbitrary  combination  of 
the  indices.     From  the  preceding  equations  we  find 


(2) 


^ipH  -  ^Hpi  =  XiqH  -  Xnqi, 

I  ^iqn  -  '^nqi  =  XhPi  -  XipH- 


2.    Let  us  write     pip^  +  qiq^  =  Ej^h, 

piqii  —  pHqi  =  ^/.  H- 


*  bee  my  note  :  "  Sopra  una  estensione  della  teoria  di  Riemann  sulle  funzioni  di 
variabile  complessa."     ("  Atti  della  R.  Ace.  dei  Lincei,"  Vol.  Ill,  fasc.  lo.) 


1:10561 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Among  the  £'s  and  D's  we  shall  have  the  relations 
(3 )  Dj„E^^  +  D„^E^,  +  Dj,,E^„  =  o, 


whence 

(4) 


=  I  Piqi 

PkQk 


PipH  +  qiqn        PiPl  +  qiqL 

pKpH  +  qKqH         pKpL  +  ^A"?L 


J^IH^KL   ~~    ^KhEtT     —     DjJcUjrr. 


Pnqn  ^   r)      r^ 

pLqL  , 


IK'^HL 


'IK^HL' 


3.    If  we  solve  the  equations  (2)  for  «^  and  Xi,  we  shall 

have  -_  _ 

z;  -  KahXiZlMuXh  ^  _  EiH^i  -  Ejj(Off 


®/  = 


'HI 


'IH 


Since,  however,  the  first  member  of  these  equations  does 
not  depend  on  H,  we  must  have 


^  -  ^ihXi  -  EuXh  _  EikXi  -  E^iXk 

Dki 


COj  = 


D 


HI 


^  {EihXi  -  EnXH)EjK  -  {EjkXi  -  EuXk)E 


IH 


DfTjEj^  -  D^rE 


KI^IH 


__  ^ihXk  ~  EikXh 


D 


HK 


In  a  similar  way  we  can  operate  on  the  expression 
for  X/)  and  therefore  whatever  H  and  K  may  be  we 
have  the  formulae 


(E) 


4- 


—   _  J^ihXk  ~  Eji^Xh 


G)^  = 


D 


HK 


Xi  = 


EiH^K 


EiK^H 


D 


KH 


From  the  preceding  formulae  it  follows  that 

Dhi^j  =  EihXk  -  Ei^Xh, 

^H  —  EhkXi  ~  EjjiXKt 


E>KI^^ 


E>iH^K  =  Ef^iXn  —  EkhXii 

1:10573 


I 


- •~y-:)^'V- 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

hence,  whatever  /,  H,  K  may  be,  we  have  the  formula 

and  similarly,     DhkXi  +  ^kiXh  +  DjhXk  =  o. 

5.    Let  us  return  to  the  equations  {£) ;  from  them  it  fol- 
lows that  r  I' 


IL  O^L        Xl 


Xi 


IL^HK 


If  we  interchange  /  with  H  and  L  with  K  the  last  member 
of  this  equation  will  not  change.     Hence  we  shall  have 


(6) 


I     <o,     Xi  _ 


D 


IL   ("l      Xl 


D 


HK 


«*>//      Xh\ 

^K        Xk 


In  other  words,  the  quantities  ©..  are  independent  of  /  and 
L,  and  so  we  can  denote  them  all  by  ©. 

If  in  (5)  we  put  /  =  //,  L  =  i:,  we  shall  have 


(7) 


e  = 


(PjXl  -  pLX2f+  iQiXL-<]LX,)- 


formulse  which  show  that  ©  is  a  positive  quantity.  If  in  (5) 
we  Interchange  S  and  x,  and  p  and  9,  the  ©  will  not  change, 
and  we  shall  have  for  ©  the  alternative  expression 


(5') 


e  = 


D.rD 


JL^HK 


[1058] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

If  we  write  0  =  0i  +  {(jy^  and  make  use  of  our  symbols  /,  H  •••, 
we  can  write 

^01  d<l>i 


(Oj  =  (O 


h-ir+i 


Xl  —  Xu-ir+i  = 


^K^f.-^wJ      d{xj)' 


d(i>i 


d(t>i 


^(^ir^W'X^^J        d(Xj) 


where  (xj)  is  a  substitute  for  (xt^Xi,^-' x,^^^),  i.e. 

The  expression  for  @  can  novv  be  written 
(G)  0  = 

D,rD 


IL^HK 


where  in  place  of  ^  we  can  put  either  <t>i  or  <^. 

6.   We  know  that  the  quantities  co  and  %  must  satisfy  the 
following  equations  (see  section  5,  article  i) 


V+2> 


and  therefore,  from  {E),  we  have  the  following  equations 

r+2  n 


(H) 


dx. 


^K'^ii-is~l*s+l-*r+2^  H       ^^"^^•••'5-lWl-'r+2'   ^ 


D 


=  o 


^ii: 


r-^2 


2(-i) 


,-.  5 


^ATc 


OJ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

or,  by  reason  of  (H)  and  {F),  4>i  and  <l>,  must  satisfy  the 


equations 

r+2 


1  ' 


■a(x^) 


(F^) 


It 


D 


HK 


=  o 


/).K.T^-  +  ^-a^)  +  ^- 


=  o. 


7.  Conversely  it  can  be  shown  that  if  yp\[Sr]\  is  a  real 
regular  function  and  satisfies  the  preceding  equations,  it 
may  be  considered  as  the  real  part  of  a  function  rP  +  iB 
isogenous  to/.     In  fact,  by  means  of  (//O  we  can  write 


'd{xK) 


dd 


H,K 


D 


'hk 


d{xj) 


where  Cr,)  =  K  .••  ^,_A.r- ^W^)'  ^^^  ^^^^  ^^'^  ^^^/^^ 
it  follows  that  the  first  member  of  the  preceding  equations 
is  independent  of  H  and  K,  hence  we  can  take  the  d^^  as  in- 
dependent of  their  subscripts  and  write  them  all  equal  to  6, 
so  that 


d{xK) 


d{x„) 


D 


HK 


de 

d{x,) 


And  now  if  from  these  equations  we  follow  the  inverse  pro- 
cedure to  that  of  articles  i,  2,  3,  we  find  that  the  ratio 

d(x,) 


pi + ki 

is  independent  of  the  indices  (/),  so  that  ^p  +  id  is  isogenous 

1:1060;] 


0 
if' 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

to  /.     The  equations  {H')  and  {F')  operate  in  our  case  in  the 
same  way  as  the  equation  A^  =  o  in  the  theory  of  Riemann. 

7.  Conditions  for  ISO geneity. 
I.  If  we  take  arbitrarily  a  regular  function  of  hyper- 
spaces  Sr  it  will  not  always  be  possible  to  associate  with  It 
an  Isogenous  function.  In  order  for  that  It  Is  necessary 
that  certain  conditions  be  satisfied.  In  fact  If  F\  [SJ  |  Is  a 
regular  function  to  which  $  |  [SJ  |  Is  Isogenous,  and  we  write 

df  d^  - 


we  must  have 


=  p 


<  •1 


r+l> 


(O, 


V+1 


A- 


^K 


=  0 


Xi 


'r+ 


.) 


<r+l' 


V+1 


where  </>  Is  independent  of  the  Indices  ii 
follows  that  _ 

so  that 


*^r+l' 


Hence  it 


r+2 


<5«t. 


1 

r+2 


~As^  ^yph-h-ih+i- 


From  this  we  conclude  that  it  is  necessary  and  sufficient 
in  order  that  there  may  exist  a  function  isogenous  to  F\  [SJ 
that  the  system  of  si7nulta7ieous  linear  differential  equations 

dct> 


1 

admit  solutions. 


+2 


dx\ 


=  O 


It  is  for  this  reason  that  In  §  9  we  shall  study  systems  of 
differential  equations  of  this  form.  In  the  meantime  let 
us  observe  that  the  equations  (i)  may  In  some  cases  be  in- 
compatible. Thus,  if  we  have  In  four  dimensions  the  regu- 
lar function  F  \  [Si]  |,  the  equations  (i)  become 

nio6i3 


i 


i 


4 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


d4>    ^    ^     d<t>        .      5<^  _  o 


r+2 


dx^ 


dX: 


dXi 


d4> 


-?4l|?:+?31^-?34^;-0, 


a^  -  ^^^  a;cr ""' 


and  these  equations  will  be  incompatible  unless 

^12^84  +  :^13p42  +  ^14^23  =  O 

2.   We  now  proceed  to  prove  the  following  theorem  : 
The  necessary  and  sufficient  condition  in  order  that  equations 
(I)  admit  a  common  solution  0  is  that  we  can  write 

(2)  ^,-*r+2  =  Z/~   ^^   dx.^dix^^^^^'^.X  ^^^   -  ^i,^,) 

where  xl^  is  a  regular  function  of  hyperspaces. 


Let  us  write 


dxly 


Six.  -Xi^) 


=  ^h-ir' 


It  is  easy  to  show  that  if  the  equations 


r+l 


are  satisfied,  the  equations  (i)  will  also  be  satisfied.    In  fact, 
we  shall  have     r+2  d^ 


r+2  r+2 


,+,  d(t)    d<t> 


a;c:< 


^ti- ViWi-^t-i^«+i*"*''+i' 


1:1062:] 


(0 


in  which  5^ .    is  extended  over  all  the  values  of  the  index  s 

from  I  to  r+2,  the  value  t  excepted,  and  j'  should  be  taken 
equal  to  j-  or  to  j—i  according  as  j-<^  or  s>t.  Hence  the 
left-hand  member  of  the  equation  is  zero,  and  the  equations 
(i)  are  satisfied.     From  (2')  it  also  follows  easily  that 


r+2 

X 


(  —  I  )*  ^^^t"<*-lWl     •^r+2  _  Q 

dXi^ 


Thus  we  have  shown  that  our  condition  is  sufficient.  To 
show  that  it  is  also  necessary,  let  us  execute  a  change  of 
variables,  instead  of  Xi,  X2  •••  x^  taking  :vl  =  0,  ^2  =  -^2  **•  ^n^^n- 
If  we  prime  the  letters  which  refer  to  the  new  variables,  we 
shall  have 
1st)  if 


I  ^  I 


d<t> 
dx,^ 


2d)  if 


7*=  I 


d({> 


<» 


''dx 


ih 


Supposing  momentarily  that  Zi  •••  ir+i^i  we  shall  have 


r  +  l 


d<t) 


1  ^^^u 


1  * 


where    /'  = 


dxuT 


d<i> 
dxu 


t-i 


according  as 


t<s 
t>s. 


Hence 


(3) 


?<i-lr+l~  2s^       0    ^<i-<,_i<5+l-<r+l 
1 

[1063] 


d<t> 
dxi^ 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

If  we  suppose  instead  that  some  one  of  the  Indices  of  p  is 
equal  to  I,  say  Ji=  I,  we  shall  have 


r^l 


d(l>  d(l)  d(t) 


o  S 

We  shall  show  that  (3)  is  a  consequence  of  (3O.     In  fact, 
from  (3')  we  have 


'\U-i 


^ii-'ir+l 


2  ■■■  ^r+l 


so  that  (3)  becomes 


Pu- 


'r+ 


r+1 


\dxi/ 

Pui-ts-\is+l-'^r+l    c)j> 


a<^ 


and  ;f  we  put  lo  =  i,  this  gives  us 

u  * 

an  equation  which  is  identically  true. 
We  must  now  prove  that  the  functions 

f  ^  _PlU-ir  +  l 

dxi 
satisfy  the  conditions  of  integrability  (see  section  5,  article 
l),  assuming  therein  that  </>  is  constant. 
We  have  in  fact  (see  section  5,  article  3) 

d{XiX2  •••  Xn) 

where 

{hiJh  •••  KJlrr2  '"  K)  =  (I '2  •••  WV+2  -  4)  =  (^    2,  -  n) 

so  that 


.f  _Pli2-ir^l 


^0 

1:1064] 


.If 

i 


i 

i 
•1 


; 


; 


1 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

If  ii,  4-"  if+i  5^  I,  we  have  (see  section  5,  article  3) 


I       -^  '^K+2--^'„) 


^''••••'+i'~^(0;c2-.T„)"*^*' ■■•*'+' 


d(.xiX2--x„) 


'^K^-V) 


r+1 


dxi 


d<t> 


And  so  if  we  apply  the  theorem  of  section  5,  article  3,  we 
shall  have 


r+1 


o=Xi-^y 


dXf 


Pl-<2---<s-i<s+i  •••</•+! 


\dxi' 


r+1 


=i;(-o' 


a.r.  ^*«-*5-iWi-<r+i' 

The  functions  ^'  then  satisfy  the  conditions  of  integrability, 
and  it  will  be  possible  to  determine  a  function  xp  which  satis- 
fies equations  (2).  Thus  it  is  shown  that  the  given  condi- 
tion is  necessary. 

3.  Given  the  F  for  which  (i)  is  satisfied,  the  xj/  which 
satisfies  (2)  is  not  determined.  We  shall  see  how  all  the  xp^s 
which  satisfy  (2)  may  be  found  when  one  of  them,  xpi,  is 
known.     If  xpi  and  xp  satisfy  (2),  and  we  write 

dxp2 


xp  —  Xl/i=  Xp2. 


^i^'^ir-'O 


we  shall  have 


and  therefore 


o  =  S(-irg.if!... 


^?-.  =  2(-o^ 


dXi  d(Xi 


(9@ 


'5—1     's-tl 


'\) 


in  which  ®i[S;._i]|  is  arbitrary. 

1:10653 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


THE  GENERALIZATION  OF  ANALYTIC  FUNCTIONS 


Second  Lecture 

Expressions  for  isogenous  functions  —  auxiliary  remarks  on 
systems  of  simultaneous  differential  equations — on  the  ele- 
mentary functions  —  composition  of  functions  of  hyperspaces  — 
new  considerations  with  reference  to  the  relation  of  iso- 
geneity  —  differentiation    and    integration  —  isogeneity    of 

ORDER   r. 

8.  Expressions  for  isogenous  functions 

I.  If  /"IfSJl  and  ^1  [SJ  I  are  isogenous,  it  follows  from 
what  has  been  shown  in  the  preceding  section  that  we  can 
write 


dF 


r+l 


?vwi=i:.(-ir 


dyp 


I 

r+l 


*i      *; 


r+ 


.-xy^) 


^L_ 

s  ^ ^_± 

dx,^d{x,^"'X,^_^x,^^^'"X,^J 


where  4/\  [S^-^  \  is  regular  and  0  is  a  function  of  /;  and  we 


know  that  the  ratio 

equal  to  ^. 
df 


OJ 


i,   -i 


•»r+ 


Ar-<r+i 


-  (independent  of  the  indices)  is 


2.    Let  us  write 


d\p 


d(\"'xi,) 


It  follows  that 

(i)  Pi,...i 


r+l 


/•+ 


.-xs-^y 


,^*i-h-ih+\-Wi 


dXi 


i:io66] 


i 

■ft 

I 


I 


-f 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

If  now  Sr+i  is  a  space  of  r+i  dimensions  whose  boun- 
dary is  Sf,  we  shall  have 

where  the  «<,...  ^^^^  are  the  direction  cosines  of  S^+i.  And  if 
we  substitute  for  the  ^'s  their  values  (i)  and  apply  the  ex- 
tension of  Stokes's  theorem  (see  Section  4),  we  shall  have 


(2) 


and  similarly, 

3.  Conversely,  if  F  and  <l>  are  given  by  the  preceding  for- 
mulae, with  (l>  =  <t>{f),  the  F  and  $  must  be  isogenous. 

9.  Auxiliary  remarks  on  systems  of  simultaneous  differential 

equations 

I.  Consider  the  system  of  differential  equations 


(I) 


r+2 


H 


M2   < 


74-2 


1  >s 


=  o 


whose  coefficients  satisfy  the  conditions 


(2) 


r+2 


Z^S        ^^'^^<A-^+lA-<*-l<.+l-<r-.2 


=  O 


and  are  such  that  they  cnange  sign  with  every  trans- 
position of  the  indices.  With  this  convention,  if  we  have 
an  H  with  two  of  its  indices  equal,  its  value  must  be 
zero. 

[;io67] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

2.  Among  the  J's,  one  at  least  must  be  different  from  zero. 
If  Ai,i^...i^,  is  such  a  one,  all  the  equations  (i)  will  follow 
from  the  equations  {independent  among  themselves), 

in  which  none  of  the  hi,  h-2.  •••  A„_r-i  u  (?^wa/  /o  another,  or  to  an  i. 

Let  us  take,  in  fact,  the  system 
(4)         ^v-Wi*»  =  o,    //vv+ii,  =  o,  •••  Hi,..ir^it,^2  =  o. 

where  the  y^,  are  arbitrary.  If  a  ^5  is  equal  to  one  of  the  ii , 
the  corresponding  equation  will  be  an  identity;  otherwise, 
it  will  be  one  of  the  equations  (3).  The  equations  (4)  can  be 
written  in  the  form 


=  O. 


If  we  multiply  each  one  by  (  —  1)*  -^ti-t^.ii^+i-i.+a  ^^^  ^^^ 
them  together  for  all  values  of  the  subscript  s  from  i  to  r+  2, 
we  shall  have 


r+2 


^r-\-2 


1 

d<t>  '^^ 


dx. 


r-i-l 


l/A<^     1 


1 

r-i-2 


^^    —  U  — 


'1  ••*^r+2 


whence     ^^  (-  i)'-^t,t,..-t,_it,+i....,+2a;^ 
so  that  the  theorem  is  proved. 

3.   Now  let  us  form  the  alternating  function  of  Poisson 

taking    i\  =  Ai,  io  =  ho,  •••  iV+i  =  K+i    and    writing   /z,+2  =  ir^z, 

[1068] 


^ 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

we  shall  have 


r+2    r^2 


2^1  Z^X—   0'"^'^   ^^-  ^^-I'ls+l 


1         1 

r+2 


V+2 


-2s(-i)'HA-viwi-w2 


1 

r+1  r+1 


•0 


ht 


1        1 

r+2 


r+2  n  ^  r+2  j^  , 

r+2  ;)  ^  r+2 


1 

r+2 


^0 


+  2    (-   l)^+^+2^^^^i-^'-+l^^t-^/-l</+.        r+2)    ^0 

,  CJXa 


1 

r  +  2 


dx 


_y    /        jy+r+2^^A-V+lA-^^-lft^+l-^+2)   ^0 


I 

r+2 


*r+2 


+  S.(-i) 


s+r+2 


^  (A  -  <r+l^^  -  f>s-lf^s+l  -  ^+2)       ^0 


1 
r+2 


-Xsi-l) 


s+ 


^^.,  ^^^r+^ 

r+2^'^A-WlA-<s-lWl-V+2^       50 


If  we  write 


r+2 


dx. 


s5^A,..ft,_l/j,+  l-/.,+2 


dXf, 


r+2 


dXr 


'r'»r+2 


we  shall  have 


r+3 


-  ^i,-tr+iAS  ^y^h-h-ih+r" 


d(j) 


r+3 


+  2^ A-  0' — ^:7^~"^A-«s-i^5+i-W3  +  ^^r-W2^«r-<r+i«; 


dx^ 


r+3 


-^li-.WlW3^<i-*r+2* 


1:1069] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


2.  Among  the  ^'s,  one  at  least  must  be  different  from  zero. 
If  Aui^...i^,  Is  such  a  one,  all  the  equations  (i)  will  follow 
from  the  equations  {independent  among  themselves), 

in  which  none  of  the  hi,  hi  •••  An_r_i  ^J"  ^^wa/  ^0  another,  or  to  an  i. 
Let  us  take,  in  fact,  the  system 

where  the  ^5  are  arbitrary.  If  a  ^^  is  equal  to  one  of  the  ii , 
the  corresponding  equation  will  be  an  identity;  otherwise, 
it  will  be  one  of  the  equations  (3).  The  equations  (4)  can  be 
written  in  the  form 

If  we  multiply  each  one  by  (  —  1)'  ■^t,.-ts.it,+i..'tr+2  ^^^  ^^^ 
them  together  for  all  values  of  the  subscript  s  from  i  to  r+  2, 
we  shall  have 


rJ-l 


.i^-/- 


r+2 


UA^^       1 


1 

r-i-2 


^4>    _    rj  _   _ 


whence     2^  (-  i)'At,...t,_it,+i... 
1 

so  that  the  theorem  is  proved. 

3.   Now  let  us  form  the  alternating  function  of  Poisson 

taking   ii  =  Ai,  ii  =  ho,  •••  i'^+i  =  K^\   and   writing   /z,+2  =  ^'^43? 

[1068] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


we  shall  have 


r  +  2    r^2  /  p^   J  ^  , 

=  V  V  r     T^W  //  ^-^<,-vi^^+i-W2^0 


1     1 


dx^  dx. 


-  Z,(- 1)    l^A-<.-wi-w2 e^^^^eT-. 


1     1 

r+2 


r+2  n  ^  r+2 


1 

r+2 


/+!•••  «r+2 


^0 


4- V  (_  jy+r+2^(A-WiA- 


^/-l^i+x        r+2 


)   ^0 


1 

r  +  2 


V+2  *f 


—  2    (-  i)<+r+2^^A-V+lA-^f-l^^+l-^+2)    ^0 


1 

r+2 


^Xf  ^^  dXf, 

*r+2  "f 


,    V    /_   -  v+r+2      ^  A  -  ^r+1  A  -  ^s-1^+1  -  ^+2)       <^0 


1 

r-^2 


d^k. 


dXi 


7- +2 


-S.(-I) 

1 

If  we  write 

r-i- 


r+2^^A-<r+lA-<s-lWl-V+2^       ^0 


dx. 


d.Y; 


■r+2 


«^^A,-.ft5_lVl-^+2 


d^K 


-  L\..-h, 


r+2 


we  shall  have 


r+3 


-  A-fr+l2/    (        ^y^h-U-lh+l'-i 


d(f> 


r+3 


+  Xs(-'^y        Q^    '      ^^i,-is-lis+l-ir+Z~^^h-^r+2^h-ir+li 


r+3 


^ti-ir+l^r+3^h"-ir-^-2' 


1:1069] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


Hence  to  the  system  (i)  we  must  add  the  equations 


r+l 


*r+3 


1 

so  that  if  the  conditions 


dXi^ 


=  o 


r+2 


T-l-2 


dXi 


=  o 


are  satisfied  for  every  combination  of  the  indices  i\  •••  V2,  the 
system  (i)  will  he  complete, 

4.  From  this  It  follows  that  the  equations  (i)  of  section 
7  will  form  a  complete  system  whenever,  in  addition  to  the 
conditions  of  integrability  (see  section  5,  article  i),  the 
functions  p  satisfy  also  the  following  conditions  : 

r^2 

(5)  S/~  0'^<,-i,_iW-W2^A-^  =  O- 

1 

Hence  for  elementary  functions  (see  section  5,  article  5)  the 

system  of  equations  (i)  of  section  7  is  complete. 

10.    The  elementary  functions 

I.  Let  us  suppose  that  the  function  F  \  [SJ  |  Is  regular 
and  elementary,  so  that  the  system  (i)  of  section  7,  or  the 
equivalent  system  (3)  of  section  9,  is  complete.  There  will 
exist  then  r+  i  independent  integrals 

/         dF 


Hence  the  ratio 


e 


will  be  Independent  of  the  subscripts  Zi  •••  i„  and  we  shall 
have 


A.... 


«r+l 


^e 


d{<j),  01  ...0,) 


[1070] 


\J 


But  we  must  have    V  (_i)^_i:!L-  ^^-iWi- v 

1 


so  that 


r+2 


xs-^y 


dd 


dx. 

d{<i),  01  ...  0,) 


dXi  d(Xi  "•  Xi     X.    ,  •••  Xi  ,  J 


o, 


=  0, 


r+2 


and  consequently      2)/- i)>v'.-i',+i- -'r+ia^  =  °- 

1  *s 

The  quantity  B  will  therefore  be  a  function  of  0o,  0i,  •••0r, 

and  if  we  write  -^  =  ^,  we  shall  have 

a0 

_  ^00(^(0,    01   ...  0^)  _   ^(00,   01   ...  0;.) 

^*'-'^+i       a0  ^(.r,^...Xe,J        ^(^i,-^vj  * 

We  have  therefore  the  following  theorem : 
//  F  is  an  elementary  function^  it  follows  that 

dF  ^  ^(00,  01  ...0,)  ^ 

where  0o,  0i,  •"0r  <3r^  independent  integrals  of  the  complete 

system 

d(f)  _ 


r+2 


(I) 


2^    (       l/Ar-<s-lfc+l-<r+2 


dXi 


=  o. 


2.    Conversely,  if  we  take  r4-  i  functions  0o,  0i,  •••  0r  ^^^ 
s^Tz7^ 


^(00,   01,   •••  0r) 


Pir-^r+V 


^K---^wi) 

//i^  quantities  pi^...i^_^^  will  be  the  derivatives  of  an  elementary 
function.  In  fact,  they  will  satisfy  the  conditions  of  in- 
tegrability, and  also  the  conditions  (5)  of  the  preceding 
section  (see  section  5,  article  5). 

We  shall  say  that  the  functions  0o,  </>i,  •••  0r  are  conjugate 
to  the  function  F^  and  that  F  Is  conjugate  to  them. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

3.    If  $  is  isogenous  to  F,  and  we  write 


^K-'^wi) 


=  ^<x-<r+l' 


we  must  have 


Pi. 


-i, 


v+i 


^  being  an  integral  of  equation  (i).     Hence  ^  must  be  a 
function  of  0o,  0i,  -  0r.     If  we  take  'A  =  ^'  we  shall  have 

from  which  we  deduce  the  theorem : 

All  the  functions  isogenous  to  an  elementary  function  are 
themselves  elementary. 

4.  If  we  apply  to  the  elementary  functions  the  formula  (2), 
section  8,  relative  to  the  possibility  of  defining  isogenous 
functions,  we  have 


d{(jOi  '"  CCr) 


(2) 
where 

the  equations  of  the  hyperspace  S,. 

II.    The  composition  of  functions  of  hyper  spaces 

I.  The  results  which  we  have  obtained  in  the  pre- 
ceding section  can  be  expressed  in  a  diflFerent  form 
by  means  of  special  symbols.  That  is  what  we  shall 
do  in  this  section,  after  having  proved  a  fundamental 
theorem. 

Let   F\[Sr]\   and  $1  [S,_,]  1   be   two  regular  functions  of 

[1072] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

hyperspaces,  and  write 

dF  d(f> 


d{Xh"'^h,+i) 


=  P 


fif-f^r+l^ 


^flr 


d(x^        '"X.       )        ^^+2  ^+2 


(I) 


W, 


ii---it+2 


=  V  (-iyi^-it+2^  i)^  a 


in  which  /zi  •••  A,+2  is  a  permutation  of  z'l  •.•  i^^^-^  the  sum  2^  is 
extended  over   all  the  combinations  of  the  t-\-z  subscripts 

^1  •••  h+2,  r-\-\  at  a  time;  and  the  symbol  (— 1)^^^"^/^2^  repre- 
sents +  1  or  —I,  according  as  the  substitution  which  appears 
in  the  exponent  is  even  or  odd. 

2.   We   shall    show   that   there   exists  a   regular  function 
^!['S'<+i]|,  such  that 

In  fact,  the  quantities  m  satisfy  the  conditions  of  integrabil- 
ity  (section  5,  article  i);  that  is, 


V  (-  l)'  ^^^<i"<.-lWl-<t+3 

1  dXi 


t+z 


'r+2- '"t+a 


)=o. 


3.   To  represent  the  fact  that  the  relation  (i)  holds  among 
the  three  functions  /",  <J>,  ^  we  shall  write 

We  have  immediately 


1:10733 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

If  e  i  [S,J  I  is  a  regular  function,  and  we  write 


dO 


^K.a-^Va) 


=  n 


^^z+s-^c+a 


hi-h 


A        .        =T     f_l)'^'-'^+3     />A....ft,^i^/»,,2   ••''/+2"*r-:<-''r+:i 

■/'i  •••^c+3' 

(-1)' 

/I 


=  2y     ^  -  ^)     *'  ■•■  ^'^^      ^'^^  -  'ir    2^^^<^3  •••  ''r+3' 


it  follows  that  there   exists   a  function   A  |  [S.+2I !  which  is 

regular,  and  such  that 

^A  _  f 


<c+3 


We  shall  write  A  =(/■,*,  6). 

And  in  general  if   the  functions  F"'\\S,}\   are  regular,  we 
shall  understand  by 

a  regular  function  of  hypcrspaces  S«,  7?  =  ^  r,  +  k,  obtained 
as  follows  : 

We  shall  say  that  M  is  composed  of  the  functions  f  ^^^  P'', 
...r*^  and  we  shall  call  the  operation  denoted  by  (2)  the 
composition  of  the  functions  f  ^^  r'\  -  F^^  The  operation 
of  composition  of  the  functions  F'''  evidently  possesses  the 
associative  property.  Inversion  of  the  elements  of  M  can 
only  produce  changes  in  sign  in  the  result. 

The  F^'^  will  be  spoken  of  as  the  divisors  of  AF  If  M  has 
no  other  divisors  but  itself,  it  will  be  spoken  of  as  prime. 
If  two  functions  have  no  divisor  in  common,  they  will  be 

said  to  be  mutually  prime. 

4.  Without  stopping  to  develop  the  theory  of  divisibility 
in  the  present  sense,  we  can  give  directly  a  few  of  its  proper- 

1:1074] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

ties  and  apply  them  to  the  results  of  the  preceding  sections. 
Thus,  every  regular  function,  which  is  not  prime,  can  be 
decomposed  into  prime  divisors,  and  this  decomposition  can 
be  effected  in  more  than  one  way.  If  a  function  divides 
one  of  the  divisors  of  a  function,  it  divides  the  function  itself. 
Two  functions  F  and  <I>  will  be  isogenous  when 

where/,  0  are  point  functions  and/  is  a  function  of  0.     If  F 
and  $  are  isogenous,  so  will  be  also  the  functions 

(/;  e)  and  (^,  e). 
No  function  is  isogenous  to  a  prime  function ;  in  order  that 
a  function  may  be  found  isogenous  to  a  given  function  it  is 
necessary  and  sufficient  that  the  given  function  should  admit 
a  divisor  which  is  a  point  function.  That  is,  it  is  necessary 
for  it  to  have  the  form  F  =  (^,/)  with/  a  point  function. 

An  elementary  function  is  obtained  by  the  composition  of 
point  functions,  etc.,  etc. 

12.    New    considerations    with    reference    to    the    relation    oj 

isogeneity 

I.  So  far  we  have  been  considering  isogeneity  between 
functions  of  hyperspaces  of  the  same  number  of  dimensions. 
We  are  now  to  generalize  this  relation  so  that  it  will  apply 
to  hyperspaces  of  different  dimensions.  Let  us  consider  the 
two  regular  functions  <^  |  [S,] !,  \[^  i  [SJ  i ,  with  r  >  /,  and  write 


^K---^<,^i) 


=  a 


<i -(r+l       ' 


^K*-*'V1^ 


We  shall  say  that  $  and  ^  are  isogenous  when  the  follow- 
ing conditions  are  satisfied  : 

f+2 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

In  the  case  where  r  is  equal  to  t,  these  equations  imply 
that  the  functions  not  only  are  isogenous  in  our  first  sense, 
but  also  that  they  are  elementary.  Conversely,  if  two  ele- 
mentary functions  of  hyperspaces  of  the  same  number  of 
dimensions  are  isogenous  in  the  sense  of  section  6,  they  are 

also  in  the  present  sense.  ,    ■.    ^ 

2.  It  is  easy  to  show  that  ever-^  junction  which  admits  <P 
as  divisor  is  isogenous  to  <ir.     In  fact,  if  we  take 


a. 


we  shall  have  V  (-  i)'^ii-t,_i<,+i-W3^</i-^^  ~  ^' 

1  * 

which  proves  the  theorem. 

3.  We  can  now  generalize  a  theorem  given  in  section  7, 
article  2.     We  have  : 

The  necessary  and  sufficient  condition  that  cj>  \  [SJ  1  shall  he 
isogenous  to  the  elementary  function  ^  |  [S,_J  1,  is  that 

(2)  $i[sj!  =  (^,e). 

That  the  condition  is  sufficient  can  be  shown  without  any 
difficulty.  In  order  to  show  that  it  is  also  necessary,  let  us 
write  ,^  d^  _■, 


d^ 


de 


=  Ci 


d(4>\,  <i>2  •••  <t>r-l+U  . 

We  shall  show  that  if  (i)  is  true,  (2)  is  also  true ;   that  is, 
that  ('■.  ■  ■  »r+i') 

[;i076] 


» 

i 


I'^i 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

For  this  purpose  let  us  make  a  change  of  variable,  taking 
instead  of  xi,  X2,"'Xn  the  new  variables  0i,  02,  •••<A,+i, 
■^m,  ••••^V  If  we  indicate  with  a  prime  the  symbols  that 
belong  with  the  new  variables,  we  shall  have 

(i)  If  hr-t+2,  K-t+3,  '"Kt^ 01,  02,  ...  0^_^^i,  then 
c  =  / 

^r-t+2-^r        ^f>r-t+2-'^r 

in  which  /i,  ••«  /,  are  s  of  the  numbers  i,  2,  .••  r  -  ^  -f-  i,  and 
Ap^  •••  h^^  is  a  permutation  of  the  numbers  /i,_,+2,  •••  K^^. 

(ii)  If  one  of  the  numbers  /i,_,+2  -"  K  is  equal  to  one  of 
the  numbers  i,  2,  ...  t-\- 1,  then 

Equation  (2')  will  then  become 


+  V(-    l)Wtl2-'^.l)c', 


\K'"h 


v^""'j>:x'"'^d(xj, 


Vv\-\ 


Xh  ) 


in  which  the  first  sum  is  extended  over  all  the  possible  com- 
binations of  the  indices  A,_^+2  ••*  ^Wi  which  do  not  contain 
any  of  the  numbers  i,  2,  ...  r  -t-\-i.  The  second  sum  may 
be  rewritten  in  the  form 

d{<i„  -  0,_,.,i)      t/(,^,^  -  0,^) 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

hence  it  vanishes.     The  equation  (2")  reduces  then  to 


In  particular  we  have 

SO  that 

(3)  ^*t+2-Wi'- 


-  b\,2.-t+^^h+2-*r+i 


a 


1.2,  •••?  +  !.  i,+2---»r+l 


d{<t)l    '"    <t>t+l) 


^(^1    '"  ^U^O 


Now  by  following  a  process  analogous  to  that  of  section 
7,  article  2,  it  is  easy  to  show  that  all  the  equations  (2'")  are 
a  consequence  of  these  last  equations  (3).  And  so  it  is 
sufficient  for  us  to  show  that  the  quantities  c  ,  obtained 
from  (3),  satisfy  the  conditions  of  integrability.  We  have 
in  fact 


a 


a 


l.--<  +  l</.f2-"*r-H 


d{xi  •••  Xt+i) 

while  a'  will  be  zero  if  it  has  less  than  ^  +  i  of  its  subscripts 
taken  from  the  numbers  i,  2,  •••  ^  +  i.  If  we  apply  then  a 
process  of  reasoning  analogous  to  that  of  section  7,  article  2, 
we  find  that  the  conditions  of  integrability  will  be  satisfied 
for  the  quantities  c\ 

13.    Differentiation  and  integration 

I.    If  two  functions  F  \  [SJ  |,   ^  \  [S,]  |   are   regular  and 
isogenous,  we  know  that  the  ratio 

/  d^ 


<t> 


.dSr,-V 

dF_ 


I 

\ 


i 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

will  be  independent  of  the  hyperspace  S,^i,  and  will  depend 
merely  upon  the  point  of  the  space  at  which  the  derivative  is 
taken.  The  quantity  0  will  then  be  a  point  function  for  the 
total  space  of  n  dimensions.     We  shall  denote  it  with  the 

symbol  -—  and  call  it  the  derivative  of  4>  with  respect  to  F. 

As  a  fundamental  theorem  it  can  be  shown  that  the 
derivative  of  4>  with  respect  to  F  is  isogenous  to  both  of  the 
functions  4>  and  F,  The  proof  of  this  theorem  comes  imme- 
diately from  formula  (i)  of  section  7,  with  reference  to  the 
definition  given  in  the  preceding  section. 

2.  Consider  now  a  point  function/  isogenous  to  a  regular 
function  F  \  [S,]  \.     By  fixing  the  direction  of  the  hyperspace 

S,+i    (see   section    i,   article   2)    the  quantity    -^^    will   be 


dS, 


r+l 


defined  (see  section  3,  article  7),  and  hence  the  quantity 

dF 


fs.J: 


'^r^l'dS,     ■'^■^'+' 


h+l 


will  also  be  defined.     This  integral  we  shall  represent  by  the 
symbol 


v+1 


Changing  the  direction  of  the  hyperspace  will  change  the 
sign  of  the  integral. 

We  shall  suppose  that  the  hyperspace  S,^i  is  closed  and 
forms  the  boundary  of  a  hyperspace  S,^2  immersed  in  a  por- 
tion of  the  total  hyperspace  Sn  throughout  which  /  and  F 
have  no  singularities.     It  follows  that 


f     fdF  =  J    fV 


dF 


r+l     ^  d(x^^'^' X^^^^ 


'1  •••  V+l        r+l 


=  j^^^/2j/'<....<,„a.,...V+i^S^, 


1:1079: 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

where  the  a,....,^^i  are  the  direction  cosines  of  the  hyperspace 
Sr^i.  If  we  choose  properly  the  direction  of  the  hyperspace 
£,2  and  apply  the  generalization  of  Stokes's  theorem  (see 
section  4)  we  shall  have 


=  Jg        X  ^*'  -  W2      2)  *^  ~  ^  )'^*^  -  '^-1**+1  -  *^+2 


I    /V  /      ^y-l^Pil'^'^slh+^^^^*r+2 

0X4 


•   UOr4.2  —  0« 


Hence  we  have  the  theorem  expressed  by  the  formula 

(I)  X./^^=°- 

If,  instead  of  a  single  hyperspace  S,+i  we  have  the  hyper- 
spaces  S^rli  (^"=1?  2,  •••  n)  which  bound  a  space  Sr+2  within 
which  there  are  no  singularities  for/  or  F,  we  shall  have  the 
formula : 

d')  X  X"\  -^'^^=°' 

in  which  the  directions  of  the  hyperspaces  S^i  are  all  to  be 
chosen  with  reference  to  the  conventions  adopted  for  the 
generalization  of  Stokes's  theorem. 

The  theorem  enunciated  in  the  formulcB  (i)  and  (i')  is  the 
direct  extension  of  Cauchy's  theorem. 

3.  Let  us  take  away  from  the  total  hyperspace  all  those 
portions  in  which  either  /  or  F  have  singularities,  and  then 
introduce  cuts  in  such  a  way  that  every  closed  hyperspace 
S,+i  may  be  taken  as  the  complete  boundary  of  a  hyper- 
space Sr^2' 

r  10803 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Take  two  hyperspaces  S?,  SI  such  that  a  hyperspace  S^+i 
can  be  drawn  to  have  them  for  its  boundary,  and  choose  the 
positive  direction  of  S?  and  the  negative  direction  of  SI  so 
as  to  correspond  by  the  theorem  of  Stokes  to  one  direction 
of  the  hyperspace  -S^+i.  With  the  direction  of  S^+i  fixed  in 
this  way,  the  integral 

(2)  r     fdF 

will  be  determined. 

It  is  easy  to  show  that  the  value  of  the  integral  (2)  will  not 
depend  on  the  hyperspace  Sr+i,  but  merely  on  S?  and  Sr. 
In  fact  If  Sl+i  is  another  hyperspace  which  has  these  same 
two  spaces  for  its  boundary,  the  totality  of  S^+i  and  S'r+i 
will  form  a  closed  hyperspace,  and  from  the  hypotheses  that 
we  have  made,  we  shall  have 


X 


'^r+l'^^r+l 


fdF=  o, 


from  which  the  desired  property  follows. 

Therefore  the  integral  (2)  can  be  indicated  by  the  expres- 
sion 

(2')  S^'f^^- 

By  changing  the  direction  of  S,+i  we  change  the  sign  of  the 
integral ;   hence  we  may  write 


(3) 


X5'/^^=-Xf-^'^^- 


4.  If  we  keep  fixed  the  hyperspace  S?  and  vary  SJ,  the 
integral  (2')  may  be  regarded  as  a  function  (regular)  of  SJ, 
and  we  can  write 

(4)  £:fdF=^\[s:]\. 

Cioso 


ij 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

The  function  <1>  will  be  isogenous  to  F  and  we  shall  have 

d^ 


(5) 


dF 


=  /, 


that  is  to  say,  the  two  operations  of  integration  and  differentia- 
tion are  mutually  inverse. 

14.    Isogeneity  of  order  r 

I.  A  system  of  elementary  functions  will  be  said  to  have 
isogeneity  of  order  r  when  all  the  functions  of  order  greater 
than  or  equal  to  r,  which  are  obtained  from  the  system  by 
means  of  composition  (see  section  11),  vanish,  while  there  is 
at  least  one  function  of  order  r  -  i  which  does  not  vanish. 
All  the  elementary  functions  4>|  [S,]  \  of  the  system  must  de- 
pend on  certain  functions  <f)u  02,  •••</>»,  •••  '^^  such  a  way  (see 
section  10)  that 


a<j> 


2.    We  have  immediately  the  following  theorems  : 

The  necessary  and  sufficient  condition  for  isogeneity  of  order 


r  that  is 

(0 


for   every   possible  combination   of  the  numbers  h,  -"  Ir+u  ^u 

A  function  of  order  r  -  i  is  always  isogenous  to  any  other 
fu7iction  of  the  system. 

In  fact  from  (i)  it  follows  that  every  function  of  order 
r  -  I  is  isogenous  to  the  functions  of  order  zero  of  the 
system,    that    is,    to    the    functions    0,.     We    shall    have 

[1082] 


4 

11 


:,  ■    '4 


h 


■■m 


^^ 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

then 


d{XiXf,^'"X„)      T 


d\  d{Xn^"'X,) 


t+i 


1 


dx. 


And  if  we  let  rp  \  [Sr-i]  \  represent  one  of  the  functions  of 
order  r  —  i  of  the  system,  and  write 


d(xt^  --^f,) 


Pi,-ir^ 


we  shall  have 


r+l 


2^/-0>,-<,_iWl-*r4-l^Mi- -^ 


t+1 

I 

1 


r+l 


d<t>. 


=2;(-irw„^,(-i)>,,.....-,<..,......,^,". 

1  ^'^is 


Every  function  of  order  r  —  i  admits  as  divisor  another  func- 
tion of  the  system  of  lower  order  (see  section   11,  article  3). 

3.  Let  us  consider  specially  the  functions  of  the  system 
of  order  zero;  that  is,  the  functions  0i,  02,  •••0t,  •••.  By 
means  of  the  equations  (i)  we  know  that  there  must  be  v of 
them,  01,  02,  •••0r,  independent,  of  which  all  the  others  are 
functions,  and  conversely,  that  every  function  o/0i,  02,  •••0^ 
zvill  be  an  elementary  function  in  the  system,  and  will  be  of  order 
zero. 

If  we  take  two  functions  4>  and  F  of  order  r  -  i,  they  will 
be  isogenous,  and  we  shall  have  the  relation 

d^ 


(2) 


dF 


=  0(01?    02,    •••  0r)- 


Further,  if  we  take  an  arbitrary  function  0  of  order  zero, 
that  is  a  function  of  0i,  02,  •••0r,  we  shall  have 


(3) 


f  4>dF  =  o, 

%/Sr 

1:1083] 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

where    S,  is  the  complete  boundary  of  a  space  S,^i  within 
hich  0  and  F  have  no  singularities.     If  we  have 


W 


then  (3)  can  be  written  in  the  form 

CO,, ...  0),  being  the  parameters  of  the  hyperspace  S,  (see  sec- 
tion  I,  articles  1,2).     If  we  take 

dco, 

1^101     d'i(t)i"  dr<l>\ 

J"*        I  ^102        ^202  •'.  dr<i>2 
Ul0r       <^20r  •••  ^^A 

which  is  but  a  generalization  of  Cauchy's  theorem  (see  the 
preceding  section)  put  in  a  different  form  for  the  case  of 
the  elementary  functions. 

If  Sr  is  not  closed,  but  is  bounded  by  two  hyperspaces 
S'r-i  and  S,.i,  of  which  the  first  is  fixed  and  the  second  vari- 
able, we  shall  have  defined  the  expression 

di<j>\ ...  dj(j)\ 

$i[s,-,]i=r'"'0 


=   0, 


r-1 


di<j)r  ...  ^A 


1:10843 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

Third  Lecture 

ON  THE  THEORY  OF  WAVES  AND 
GREEN'S  METHOD* 


Section  i 

Kr  a  homogeneous  liquid  be  subjected  to  certain  forces 
and  let  it  occupy  a  domain  S.  Let  this  domain  be 
limited  by  a  frontier  o-  which  is  composed  partly  of  a  set  a>' 
of  rigid  boundaries,  and  partly  of  a  free  surface  co,  where  the 
pressure  is  P, 

Let  us  suppose  that  the  state  of  equilibrium  is  stable.     We 
shall  study  the  small  oscillations  of  the  fluid  when  it  is  dis- 
placed from  the  state  of  equilibrium. 
The  hydrodynamical  equations  of  Lagrange  are 


d^x     dx  ,  d'^y 


dt'' 
d^ 
df 
d'^x 
1^ 


dxo 
dx 


df 
d'y 


dy  .d^z 


ayo"^  dt' 
dx  ■  d^y 
^Zo      dt"^ 


dXo 
dy 


dy 


+ 


dt'' 

dh 

'  dt'^ 

d'-z 


d^ 

dXo 
dz^ 

dyo 


dXo 
d 

d 


V- 


(I) 


dz^  '   df     dzo     dzo  \         p 

where  x^  y,  z,  denote  the  coordinates  of  points  of  the  fluid  at 
time  t,  Xq,  yo,  U  the  initial  coordinates,  V  the  potential  func- 
tion, P  the  pressure,  p  the  density. 

2.    Let  Xq,  yo,  Zo  be  the  coordinates  which  correspond  to  the 
state  of  stable  equilibrium,  f,  ry,  f  the  components  of  dis- 
placement of  each  particle  with  respect  to  its  position  of 
equilibrium. 
Then  x=  Xq+^,  y=yo+r7,        2=  So+f. 

*  Translated  from  the  French  by  Professor  Percy  John  Daniell,  of  the  Rice 
Institute. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

If  we  consider  the  displacements  as  infinitesimals  of  the  first 
order  and  if  we  neglect  terms  of  order  higher  than  the  first, 
the  equations  (i)  become 


d~^ a 


d^v  _  ^ 
'dt^'dyo'^ 

df     dz. 


F 


F 


V- 


p 


For  simplification  the  indices  o  are  suppressed  and  x,  y,  z 
denote  the  coordinates  of  each  particle  in  the  position  of 
equilibrium. 

df    dx\ 


Then 


F 


p 
F 


d^V^  a  (  f^. 
df     dy\ 

dt^     dz\        p  / 


The  condition  of  incompressibility  can  be  written  as 

dx    dy    d: 


(2) 


(3) 


}Z 


^~dz' 


On  account  of  (2)  we  can  put 

act)  _d^ 

^^dx'       '~a/ 

4>  being  the  potential  of  displacement. 
Then  the  equations  (2)  become 

^_r+^  =  r,  (4) 

dt'  p 

where  c  is  constant  with  respect  to  x,  y,  z,  but  may  vary  with  L 

1:1086] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


The  equation  (3)  becomes 

A^^  =  o. 

At  points  of  the  liquid  where  it  touches  the  rigid  boundary 

f  cos  nx-\-  7)  cos  ny  -ff  cos  nz  =  o, 
if  n  denotes  the  normal  to  the  boundary. 

This  condition  becomes  =  o. 

dn 

3.  Let  us  return  to  the  equation  (4).     If  we  put 

F-^+c  =  H, 
P 


the  equation  (4)  becomes 


d^ 
df 


^H. 


(40 


The  free  surface  of  the  fluid  has  been  denoted  by  a?.  Let  us 
suppose  that  the  potential  function  F  and  the  pressure  P, 
which  correspond  to  each  particle  of  fluid  belonging  to  co  are 
functions  of  the  coordinates  of  the  point  occupied  by  the 
particle  independently  of  the  form  of  the  liquid.  If  this 
hypothesis  is  not  correct,  since  the  displacements  are  infini- 
tesimal, we  can  neglect  the  variations  produced  by  the  changes 
in  form  of  the  fluid  so  that  we  can  always  proceed  as  if  the 
hypothesis  were  correct. 

In  the  state  of  equilibrium  H  is  constant  on  co.     Therefore 
the  equation  of  this  surface  will  be 

H  —  Ho—  constant. 

Let  us  now  calculate  H  when  a  point  of  the  surface  co  is 

displaced  when  ?,  77,  f  are  the  components  of  displacement. 

If  we  neglect  infinitesimals  of  a  higher  order  than  the  first, 

H  =  Ho+  ^-  s  +  —-v  +  -T-r- 

dx         oy  dz 

1:10873 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

TH»p„..i„.X=.(f)>©>(f)' 

^  =  X  COS  nx,     ^^  =  X  cos  ny,     ^  =  X  cos  nz, 
dx  dy  oz 

when  n  is  the  normal  to  the  surface  oj. 

Then  ^  =  //o  +  X  (?  cos  n^  +  ??  cos  ny  +  f  cos  nz) 

=  i/o  +  x^-; 

combining  this  with  equation  (4O 


(s) 


or 


=  //o  +  X^ 
dn 

d'^ 

=  A  _     , 

dt' 


dn^ 


since  <I>  is  determinate  except  for  a  quantity  which  is  con- 
stant with  respect  to  the  time. 

Let  us  take  the  normal  n  as  directed  toward  the  interior 

p 
of   the  fluid,  and  let  us  suppose  that   F Increases   on 

moving  co  and  following  the  positive  direction  of  n. 

dH 

Then  when  n  is  positive,  — —  >  o, 

dn 

or  by  virtue  of  the  equations  (5) 

M  =  M  cos  nx-{-^  cos  ny+^  cos  nz  =  X, 
dn       dx  dy  dz 

it  follows  that  X  >  o. 

The  problem  of  waves  can  be  presented  in  the  following 

manner. 

4.   To  determine  a  function  $  regular  within  the  domain  S 

which  satisfies  the  equation 

(J)  A'^  =  o 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

within  S  and  which  in  the  part  a;'  of  the  boundary  satisfies 
the  condition 

(B)  ^=0 

dn 

and  in  the  part  o)  satisfies  the  condition 

(C)  ^  =  x^-^, 

dt^        dn ' 

where  X  Is  a  positive  quantity  Independent  of  the  time,  and 
n  Is  the  normal  to  the  boundary  directed  toward  the  interior 
of  the  domain  S. 

Section  2 

I.  We  can  make  a  comparison  between  the  problem  we 
are  about  to  consider  and  that  of  the  vibrations  of  elastic 
media,  and  other  problems  of  mathematical  physics.  The 
problem  of  the  vibrations  of  elastic  media  is  based  upon  the 

equation  -„ 

d'^u        ^    _ 

(6) 


dt^ 


=  a-A-u. 


The  problem  of  the  propagation  of  heat  In  the  case  of  varying 
temperature  leads  to  the  equation 

dF 


dt 


=  aAW. 


(7) 


The  problems  of  potential  and  of  stationary  temperatures 
in  isotropic  bodies  depend  upon  the  equation  of  Laplace 

A'^W=o,  (8) 

These  three  equations  are  respectively  of  hyperbolic,  parabolic, 
and  elliptic  types. 

The  question  we  have  considered  In  section  i  belongs  to 
the  elliptic  type  on  account  of  the  equation  {A)  of  section  i, 
which  Is  the  equation  of  Laplace;  but  it  is  the  condition 
which  must  be  satisfied  on  the  surface  co  of  the  boundary 

1:10893 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

which  leads  to  the  essential  difference  between  this  problem 
and  the  problems  of  potential  and  stationary  temperatures. 
In  fact,  in  the  problems  of  potential  the  conditions  at  the 
boundary  are  reduced  to  that  of  giving  the  values  of  the 
unknown  function  or  of  its  normal  derivative ;   m  those  of 
stationary  temperatures  a  linear  relation  between  the  un- 
known function  and  its  normal  derivative  is  known.     But  m 
the  case  of  waves  the  condition  at  the  boundary  (equation 
(C)  of  section  i)  introduces  a  new  variable,  the  time,  which 
makes  the  problem  one  of  four  variables.     In  respect  to  the 
number  of  variables  the  problem  of  waves  is  similar  to  the 
problems  of  vibrations  and  varying  temperatures.     It  differs 
from  them,  however,  because  equations  (6)  and  (7)  have  real 
characteristics.     There   are   no   real   characteristics   in   the 
problem  of  the  waves  of  liquids.     We  shall  give  a  theorem 
in  section  3  which  will  show  the  difference,  from  a  physical 
standpoint,  between  waves  in  elastic  media  and  waves  in 

liquids.  ,      ,       i-rr 

2.   There  are  two  general  methods  in  which  the  different 

problems  we  are  investigating  can  be  treated. 

That  of  the  separation  of  variables  consists  in  separating 
the  time  from  the  space  variables. 

Let  us  put  in  the  equation  (6) 

L^=  sin  mt  •  u{x,  y,  2;),  (9) 

where  m  is  a  constant. 

The  equation  becomes 

where  the  time  has  disappeared.  If,  for  example,  on  the 
boundary  U  =  o,  u  must  be  taken  =  o  there.  We  are  led  to 
find  values  of  m  for  which  the  previous  equation  has  solutions 
which  are  not  identically  zero  (special  solutions).  The  gen- 
eral solution  is  obtained  by  forming  an  infinite  series  of 

C1090] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

solutions  of  the  form  (9)  multiplied  by  arbitrary  constants 

'\Tr 

of  such  values  that  U  and  —   for  ^  =  o  have  the  values  of 

dt 

the  given  functions  of  x,  y,  z. 

The  question  of  determining  the  special  solutions  has  been 
resolved  by  Poincare ;  the  theory  of  integral  equations  has 
been  used  and  Mr.  Hilbert,  Mr.  Schmidt,  and  others  have 
founded  the  theory  of  series  of  special  solutions. 

Similarly  an  analogous  process  can  be  employed  for 
equation  (7)  if  we  put  F=  e"^v{x,  y,  z) ;  that  is  to  say,  by 
separating  the  time  from  the  variables  x,  y,  z. 

Equation  (7)  reduces  then  to 

mv  -h  aAh'  =  o, 

which  is  exactly  analogous  to  equation  (10). 

3.  The  same  method  of  the  separation  of  the  variables 
can  be  applied  to  the  problem  of  waves  in  liquids. 

If  we  put  $  =  sin  mt  <l)(x,  y,  z)  equation  (J)  of  section  i 
becomes 


equation  (B)  is 


A^0  =  o, 

^=0, 
du 


and  equation  (C)  must  be  replaced  by 

m-0  +  X  .-  =0. 
an 

Here  again  the  values  of  m  corresponding  to  solutions  0 
which  are  not  Identically  zero  (special  solutions)  must  be 
found. 

By  series  of  special  solutions  the  general  solution  can  be 
obtained.  To  calculate  the  values  of  m  the  method  of  Poin- 
care with  those  of  Integral  equations  can  be  used. 

4.  But  we  wish  to  set  aside  the  process  of  the  separation 
of  variables  and  to  pass  on  to  the  other  general  method.     It 

D09O 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

is  the  method  which  is  connected  with  the  ideas  which 
Green  used  for  the  first  time  for  the  equation  of  Laplace  and 
which,  little  by  little,  has  been  also  used  for  other  types  of 
equations.  By  this  point  of  view  Kirchhoff  arrived  at 
his  celebrated  formula  which  expresses  the  principle  of 
Huyghens.     He  applied  Green's  method  to  equation  (6). 

Betti  has  also  applied  an  analogous  method  to  equation  (7). 

We  wish  to  show  that  a  general  formula  can  be  found  m 
the  case  of  waves  of  fluids  of  a  type  which  presents  some 
analogies  to  these  formulae.  I  have  had  occasion  to  mention 
this  formula  without  giving  any  development  from  it  in 
my  lectures  at  Stockholm.  We  shall  now  develop  it  and 
demonstrate  in  detail  some  applications  of  it. 

Section  3 

I.  We  shall  begin  by  demonstrating  in  this  paragraph 
some  general  theorems. 

First  Theorem,  If  ^  is  the  Junction  which  satisfies  the 
conditions  {A),  {B),  (C)  of  section  i,  it  is  determinate  if  the 

values  %,  f— ^  of  $  and  (^]  fort=o  on  the  surface  co  are 

\  dt  Jo  \dt  / 

known. 

Demonstration.  Let  $1,  $2  be  two  functions  which  satisfy 
the  conditions  to  which  ^  is  subjected. 

Their  difference  ^3=  4>i-<|)2  also  satisfies  the  equations 
(A),  (B),  (C)  and  further  we  have 


(^3)0  =  o 
for  ^  =  o  on  the  surface  oj. 
Let  us  now  calculate 

I  d 


\dt 


=  o 


0  =  1-^  rv^*'Yio;. 

2dtJ'^\\  dt  J 


1:10923 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

On  account  of  equation  (C)  we  shall  have 


fi  = 


=  / 


I  fd^s\fd-^, 


XV  dt  A  dt 


^>"=X(f)(t>- 


But 


on  CO 


^^3 
dn 


=  o  and  therefore 


^^j(d^j\rd<i>.^ 


dt 


dnJ 


dcr. 


Applying  a  well-known  transformation, 

Y  d  d^z    a$3  .  d  d^z    a$3  .  d  a4>3    a^3 


-"=1 


Kdx  dt    '    dx      dy  dt    '    dy 


+ 


dz  J 


dz  dt 


dS 


The  third  term  =  o ;  then 
I  d 


£ 


d^3 


s   dt 


-Q  = 


2dt 


Xi( 


fd^sY  ,  fd^^Y  ,  f^^'Vids 


dx 


+ 


\dy  J 


+ 


dz 


and  it  follows  that 


Integrating  with  respect  to  the  time, 
ifd^'^ 


<'-xi(t;-(t)'-K^!'yi-='.  <.o 


J*    1  I  U^3 
«»  X  V  a/  /         '  ^s  [\dx  J    '  \  dy  y        N  C7Z,  /    J 

where  c  is  constant  with  respect  to  the  time. 

Then  if  ($3)0  =  o  for  ^  =  o  on  w,  since        '^  =  o  on  co'  (<l>3)o 

d7i 

must  be  zero  in  the  domain  S.     Consequently,  the  second 
integral    in   the   formula  (11)  will  be  o  for  /  =  o.     In  the 

^  ^  =0,  the  first  integral  will  be  o  for 


same  way,  since 


dt  Jo 


t  =  o.  It  follows  that  c  =  o,  and  the  conclusion  can  be 
drawn  that  $3  will  be  o  for  every  value  of  /  and  therefore 
^1  ■=  $2.  Q.  E.  D. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

2  Second  Theorem.  If  at  a  certain  instant  the  molecules 
belonging  to  a  part  of  the  domain  S  are  not  displaced  from  the 
position  of  equilibrium,  any  molecule  of  the  fluid  is  not  dis- 
placed from  the  position  of  equilibrium. 

Demonstration.  If  ?,  r;,  f  are  o  in  any  part  of  S,  $  will  be 
constant  in  this  part,  and  since  it  is  an  harmonic  function 
regular  in  S,  it  will  be  everywhere  constant.  Consequently 
^,  r/,  f  will  be  o  at  all  points  of  S.  Q-  ^'  ^' 

Third  Theorem.  If  at  a  certain  instant  the  molecules 
belonging  to  a  part  of  the  domain  S  are  not  displaced  from  the 
position  of  equilibrium  and  have  no  velocity,  the  fluid  will 
remain  ahvays  in  the  position  of  equilibrium. 

Demonstration.     If  f,  ry,  K   and  |,   |,   |  are  o  in  one 

part  of  the  domain  S  at  a  certain  instant,  ^  and  —  will  be 
constant  in  this  part  and  therefore  they  will  be  constant  in 
the  whole  domain  S  at  the  same  instant.  By  virtue  of 
the  first  theorem  they  will  be  constant  in  S  at  every  instant 
and  consequently  the  liquid  will  have  no  motion.  Q.  e.  d. 

3.  These  propositions  show  us  the  essential  difference 
which  exists  between  waves  in  liquids  and  waves  in  elastic 
media.  In  elastic  media  the  motion  is  propagated  with  a 
certain  velocity  from  one  part  to  another;  in  liquids  the 
motion  reaches  the  whole  mass  contemporaneously,  at  least 
when  the  fluid  does  not  remain  in  a  constant  state  of  equilib- 
rium. In  the  case  of  liquids  there  is  no  propagation  of 
motion  and  consequently  one  cannot  speak  of  the  velocity 
of  propagation. 

Section  4 
I.    Let  ^  and  ^  be  two  functions  which  satisfy  the  con- 
ditions (^),  (5),  (C)  of  section  i. 

[1094] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

By  virtue  of  Green's  theorem 

on  account  of  (B)       f  f0^^-v/^Va;  =  o. 

^^'^  V    dn        dnJ 

Using  (C)  this  becomes 


/ 


^(^_M,^V^^co 


-\    \dt- 


dt-  J  X 


=  0. 


(12) 


Let  us  now  suppose  that 


r 


where  r  denotes  the  distance  between  a  point  A  {xq,  yo,  ^0) 
interior  to  the  domain  S  and  a  point  {x,  y,  z)  and  where  x  is  a 
regular  function.  Then  the  preceding  formulae  are  no 
longer  valid  for  they  presuppose  that  \p  is  regular  in  the 
domain  S.     In  this  case  formula  (12)  must  be  replaced  by 


4-^.  +  If^^^-^^V'^-  =  o, 


df 


dt-J\ 


where  $^  denotes  the  value  of  $  at  the  point  J. 
Then  A"t>.=  -  f-  r U^ -^^) '  ao.. 


(12') 


Integrating  between  the  limits  o  and  ti,  we  obtain 


4^f,''4>Adt=-f 


\diJi        \dtJi\\ 


'w 


+X|*.(f)r< 


dtJo     '^\dtJo 


-  do) 
X 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 


where  d>   i^  f'^*^)    (^)    denote  the  functions  <t>,  4'  and  the 
^        \dtJ\   \dtJi 

,    .       .        d4>  d4^  r  ,       u'Ag  cbn  4^.  (^)  ('-)  denote  the 

derivatives   '^^.^1  ^  ^'  \dtJo\dtJo 


same  quantities  for  t  =  to.     Let  us  now  suppose  that  xP,  and 

-^  )   are  o  on  oj. 
dtJi 

The  above  formula  gives  us  a  knowledge  of  *  at  every 
point  in  S  and  for  every  value  of  t  when  the  values  of  0o 

'^A    are  known  on  a,.     (Compare  with  the  first  theorem  of 
dtJ" 

section  3.)  •        r        j 

It  is  necessary  to  calculate  further  the  function  *  and 

consequently  x-     This  function  plays,  in  this  case,  a  part 

which  can  be  compared  with  that  played  by  Green's  junction. 

It  must  be  remarked  that  ^0  and  (^)/hould  depend  on  h 

since  ^.  and  f^")   should  be  o.    The  variable  h  appears  then 

\dtJi  .    . 

in  the  second  member  of  the  equation  (D)  because  it  is  con- 

tained  in  ypQ  and  ( "^j^- 

Section  5 

In  this  paragraph  we  shall  give  some  applications  of  the 
fundamental  formula  (Z))  of  the  preceding  paragraph.  Let 
us  suppose  that  S  is  a  sphere  of  radius  R  and  that  co  is  the 
surface  of  the  sphere  in  such  a  way  that  there  are  no  rigid 
boundaries. 

Let  us  put  ^^^  _  ^^^  _    ^  ^^^  _  ^^, 


1:10963 


04  + 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 

flo,  ^2,  ^4    •••  being  coefficients  independent  of  ti  and  t. 
shall  have 

•^•  =  ^»'    (f)i  =  °- 
But  ^  =  I+x- 

T 

•*•  ^o  =  --+(x)i, 


We 


and  since  a^  should  be  o  on  a>  and  x  should  be  a  regular  and 
harmonic  function  if  we  use  the  method  of  images  we  obtain 

R  I 


(x)i  =  - 


ir^; 


where  A'  denotes  the  image  point  of  A  with  respect  to  the 
sphere,  r^.  is  the  distance  of  the  point  A'  from  the  point 
{x,  y,  z),  I  is  the  distance  from  the  center  of  the  sphere  to 
the  point  A. 

-ru  I       R  I 

Ihen  ao  = , 

Let  p  be  the  radius  vector,  the  pole  being  at  the  center  of  the 
sphere ;    then 

da^     (ti-tyda2      {h-tyda^ 


dn  dp  dp 

av    ,  ,  (h  -  ty  ^  . 


2  1        dp 


4!       dp 


dt 


2  ! 


Consequently  on  the  surface  &>,  i.e.  for  p  =  R 


dao 


.  da^  ddi 

A  —    —  ^4,     —  A  —     =  ^65 


Since  do  is  known,  the  regular  harmonic  functions  ^2,  ^4,  ^6  *•• 
must  be  determinate  when  their  values  on  the  boundary  of 
the  sphere  are  known. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Let  us  begin  by  transforming  the  expression  for  Uq.  Let 
us  denote  by  7  the  angle  between  the  Hnes  joining  the  center 
of  the  sphere  to  the  points  A  and  {x,  y,  z). 

I R_  T 

/  fR 


Then 


an  = 


(/2  4- P' -  2 /p  cos  7) 


or 


p  duo 


I 


R  dp       R  dp  L(/2  4.  p2  _  2  /p  cos  7) ' 


'^u 


p 


■-+p^- 


7 


'>  — 


p  cos  7 


R 

I 


R\    .. 


R' 

2   J  p cos  7 


is  a  harmonic  function  which  is  equal  to  -^  on  the  surface 

of  the  sphere;  but  it  is  not  regular  in  the  interior  of  the 
sphere.  In  fact,  the  first  term  of  the  second  member  becomes 
infinite  for  p  =  /,  7  =  o.  Then  to  calculate  ^2  we  cannot 
take  the  previous  expression  and  multiply  it  by  -X  for  ^2 
must  be  regular  in  the  interior  of  the  sphere.  But  the  fol- 
lowing artifice  may  be  used  to  calculate  ^2. 

Let  us  transform  the  first  term  of  the  second  member  by  a 
transformation  of  reciprocal  radii  with  respect  to  the  sphere 

and  let  us  multiply  by  — .     The  expression  remains  harmonic, 

P 
possesses  the  same  values  on  the  boundary  of  the  sphere, 
but  becomes  regular  in  the  interior.     To  make  the  trans- 
formation of  reciprocal  radii  it  is  sufficient  to  replace  p  by 

^'     Thus  the  first  term  of  the  previous  expression  becomes 


R' 


R"  —  Ip  cos  7 


(/V  -  ^' -  2 /i^'p  cos  7) 

The  second  term  equals 

pl{lp  —  R'  cos  7) 

{R' +  Pp'- 2  IR'p  cosy)' 

[1098] 


BOOK  OF  THE  OPENING 


It  is  found  then  that 
^2  =  —  X 


Pp'  -  R 


(R' +  Pp'- 2  IpR' cosy) 


In  calculating  ^4,  a^  •••  there  are  no  more  difficulties  and 


^4  =  —  X^ 


P  0 


R'-l 


O      O 


^  ^P  LR'  +  /V  -  2  IpR'  cos  7) 


a 


X2         d 


R'  -  Pp'^ 


In  general, 


Rdlogpl (7^^  +  /2p2  _  2  IpR^ cos 7) ^ 


0 


n-1     ^ 


iU-l 


R'  -  Po~ 


Consequently, 


R""-'  a  (log  p)«-^    Li^4  ^  I2p2  _  2  lpR2coS  7) 


ij 


n-1 


r K^ 

LR'  +  Pp''  -  2 


R'  -  Pp- 


+ pp- 

^n-l 


I  pR^  COS  7) 


(^1  -  t) 


2n 


271  I 


R'  -  Pp' 


l(R'  +  P 


{R' +  Pp' -  2  IpR' cos  y)"" J 


(h  - 1) 


2n-l 


(2  w  —  i)  ! 


In  order  to  calculate  the  formula   {D)  of  section  4  it  is 
necessary  to  evaluate  i/^o  and  [~)  ,  that  is   to  say,  to  put 

^  =  o  in  the  previous  series.     Further  it  is  the  values  at  the 
surface  of  the  sphere  which  have  to  be  found.     Finally,  this 
expression  must  be  derived  with  respect  to  ti. 
Let  us  then  adopt  polar  coordinates  and  put 

X  =p  sin  ^   cos  0,        y  =  p  sin  ^  sin  0,      z=  p  cos  ^, 
:vo  =  /   sin  ^0  cos  0o,       yo=  I  sin  ^0  sin  0o,     z=  I  cos  ^0. 


THE  RICE  INSTITUTE 

Then     cos  7  =  cos  <^  cos  00+  sin  0  sin  0o  cos  {6  ~  ^0). 
Let  us  write 

00  \n-l  ;a»»-l 


1 

'      R""-'  d(\og  l)""-' 

r          R^-P          1 

^2„-l 

_/e2  +  /2  -  2  i^/  cos  7)^-J 

(2n  —  i)  ! 

Formula  (Z))  can  be  written 

Da)Hl,  So,  </>o,  t)  =  ^fcl>o(d,  (/>)©(/,  6>o,c!>o,  ^,  0,  0  sin  ^^(9^0 

+  —  tA  *o((9,  0)©(/,  ^0,  00,  ^,  0,  0  sin  eded<t>, 


yir  dp 

where  for  simplification  we  have  written 

^o(<9,0)  =00(^,^,0,0,^  =  0 


^;  (^,  0)  = 


^-0o(^,  ^,  0,  0 


,^  =  O. 


The  formula  we  have  been  seeking  to  find  is  the  general 
formula  in  the  case  of  the  sphere. 

If,  instead  of  a  sphere,  the  liquid  occupies  a  hemisphere 
and  the  diametral  plane  constitutes  the  rigid  boundary  so 
that  the  curved  surface  is  free,  the  method  of  images  will 
provide  the  solution  in  a  similar  manner.  The  same  holds 
in  the  case  where  the  liquid  occupies  a  section  of  a  sphere 
between  two  rigid  diametral  planes  the  angle  between  which 


TT 


equals  -,  where  n  is  an  integer. 
n 


VlTO    VOLTERRA. 


vrv^r^-^v 


E-PR£^1> 


Ciioo] 


1 


•u 


m:  -*, 


•ill  4 


n  » 


•  »' 


.  >'w4 


U'(i,(d 


i 


\ 


'<•      m     !»•      K^    iiit>      m     tm 


COLUMBIA  UN  VERSITY 


0032190646 


BRITTLE  DO  NOt 
PHOTOCOPY 


^ 


CD 


CQO. 


I 


»     m     m     m 


^cr/^^c 


/2, 


/C€-  -Z-    /?5-/>/4^ 


/)^ 


JUL  3  'A  V^'-'ft 


«    Y  • 


i 


I 


I 


••    ««     «.    ■.     • 


^»     •    »    « 


REDUCTION 


RATIO 

WITHIN 


I.OIO 


y  —  —  0.97 


—  o. 


y  —  —  0.05 


0.0 


0.2 


Pi.ATr  I 


o 


oc 


y 


/ 


/ 


\ 


>^ 


(^ 


X 


Figure  i 


Figure  2 


2 


Figure  3 


U    positive 


X 


Y 


6     neaatvve 


Figure  4 


Figure  5 


X 


Figure  6 


Figure  7 


X  ^  ^    ^^      ^^    ^^ 


Figure  i 


Figure  2 


Y 


z 


Figure  3 


Figure  4 


X 


rieqauue 


1 


U^ 


Figure  5 


X 


Figure  6 


Figure  7 


Figure  8 


Figure  9 


Figure  9 


Figure  10 


J.      IVJV^lVi-.       M.  \^ 


Figure  i  i 


Figure  i  i 


Figure  12 


Figure  i  ^ 


Figure  14 


Figure  15 


/ 


FrciRE  I  ^ 


Figure  14 


Figure  i  s 


z 


^ 


^ 


X 


Figure  i6 


f 


r 


FiGLRK  17 


X 


Vxc.iAv:  iS 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


•^ 


x^ 


/ 


/ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


X 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


y 


y 


y^ 


F'iGURE  19 


•rn^-^M 


Figure  20 


Figure  21 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


^ 


y^ 


/ 


/ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


N 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


y 


/ 


y 


Figure  19 


•-.    ¥ 


Figure  20 


Figure  21 


^-> 


I 


Figure  i6 


-  21     0 

»  23   *fO 

••  J?9    10 

•'  30  30 

-  3?  /O 
"  33  ^0 

"  3r  JO 

-  38  /a 

-  39  /^ 


II 
I  I 
I 


h 


I  I*    ••         I      • 

I  \ ! ! U— L 


I    II   III    I 


»- 


I    I  I*    I        M        •   • 


\- 


I  I' 

I— — 


I       I 


i      I    I 


••      • 


I 


I   •! 


I  Mil 

I        il     III  1    • 


t  III 


niiD  iriB  iin  i 


^■irttl****!** 


Fir.iRE  26 


Figure  23/' 


wo 


IW 


KAin  i:  x; 

CEOGR\PIU.SCHKN  VfcRliHKlTV.VG     ^    [^    ^ 
NORDUCHTES. 


J^rSuliibarifll  '', 

Linieiuvii-alfiRichUmgdfr^iUbcuneii     ;, 

o^        Magnrnscheyiemkiiu  < 

\    J' 


Figure  22 


Figure  24 


-^-> 


J 


Fir. L  RE  1 6 


,^s^-        •  '■— 


Figure  23/^ 


-     21 

0 

*     23 

^0 

"     Z5^ 

fO 

"     2<i 

10 

"     30 

30 

-     32 

'0 

.,     33 

to 

II 
I       I 

1 


I 


!•       •  •  1 

I  \ \ ! 1 


I  II  III  I 


h 


"  3V   30 

"  3f  30 

-  38  /a 

-  39  fo 


t    tl*    I        M 


^- 


I  I  !• 

I 


I         i 


I       I    I 


••       • 


fl  Mil 

I         I  I      III  i    • 

f  em  innBiiiiD  iiii  iirn  1 


f — f    t    I    I — ^- 


!  t  t 


r 


»     I 


Fir.i  RE  2(J 


Figure  22 


Figure  24 


;  I     ,        »  I  I  ■  I 

I    It*  /n"  to' 

I       ■      50     '*0 
*     ■     21     0 

-     ^9   19  ' 

30   iO  I 

\     "    35-  30  I 


t 

l  "    HI  to 


■^-1 — rr — ' — ^ 


4 . , ^ 


t- 


I 


i| 


•  •  I 


I  ;.    I      I      I  I    ,  .    .  I 


II    III     '    I ! 

II*   I       II 


\- 


I  I        I* 


I 


II         I    I  I" 

I    •!• 

I               I  I  I  I 

I  I      III           I  • 


-. . 1 .- 


— • * • 1 1 —  I       I >       < 


»       >      *       t 


r  ni  ■■iiiiD  ma  iirn  i   r   n  i 

I  I  I  I  r  f         I  I         I  I  I  I  I  »   »  ' 


^   ■"  Ti-miZcs    i.-r.fent.M.rtS 

I      I      » — ■ «      I      »' — « 1 1 1 — ' ' ' — '      I      ' 


Fk.L  RK  2S 


U> 


t 


I'ir.LRK   iS 


1'  K.l  Rl-  2<> 


Fkuri-  29 


}' 


/"> 


b. 


(f  ^ 


/ 


■/ 


// 


'./ 


/■/ 


N- 


/ 


Fk.I  RK  26 


-y 


lILciCj'nettt  axi 


IMortk   ijole 


Oou  t  It   pol  e 


1 1 1  cu  cni  ^  t  i. 


c    Ctt  L  -5 


Leiilre  o\    111*? 


eari  h 


Kl(,l  RK  .^l) 


ICIRK  2 


■-  ^/ 


V 


]•  KU   RK  ;?I 


/ 


X 


X  a^- 


\        il20 


K^\.-^ 


('■  7 


7, 
/ 


^^Iro 


}\ 


^/J: 


/— 0,93 


FuiLRK  28 


Figure  32 


Fk.L  RH  33 


fO' 


'   '0 
3f   30 


-^-T 


-r — u 


I     <     »    ■  I     I     I     >     I     '     '     »     ' 


^.__^ — 1_- 


</     y 

:?3   *i> 

'  1 

-?5"   li) 

1           1 

I    \ ! ! LL 


I     II 


I    I  I  •     I         M 


'  /a 

1        1 

1      1 

,  •< 

39  m 

1 

1    •!• 

)    20 

1 

1   1 

1 

>     TO 

1        il 

III 

1    • 

«-     t         f         >         r 


I  !!G   omiillll  111!  Iirn  I    l     ll  l  .< Tt-miUs   vTi/'e'rieures 

■      — , — I      I      . — I — K— • — I — »      .      »  .  ■      I      %      I — »      I      I      '      '      ' — ' — I — ' — ' — ' — ^ 


Fl(il  Rl    2> 


Oil 


t 


!'i(;i  Ki   iS 


!•  U.l  Rl    21  t 


Fk.I    Rl-   2<) 


r 


\' 


^^-^ 


K        i^^ 
I        ^-^ 


^/'   ■•/    ^<    ^JV 


'    "». 


/ 


-y 


1-  K    i    Kl     J(i 


H 


V, 


JO- 


;r 


-z: 


-30- 


lIL  cici-netit  axi. 


Nor  Ik   tool- 


Oou  t  It  pol  e 


I  I  U"l  Q  Vi  t-  t  i. 

J 


C     CtV  L  ?, 


Fk.I  Ri:  1- 


Leu  trf  or    the   eciri  I 


/— C,9  3 


I'K.l   Kl.    ■{(> 


I'u.i  Kr  ^  I 


1-  K.lRl    28 


FuHRIi    \2 


\   U.l   RK    1 


X 


^ 

§ 

9.    = 

-1             < 

r          ' 

R      . 

""J 

5 

^     ' 

?.     < 

O 

"?- 

9 

^         i 

5        ? 

'^1 

?         ■ 

D       : 

% 

'?     2        ; 

D 

R  0  5 

^     < 

? 

?    • 

=   ?   l 

r     ! 

T              ' 

~ 

-      ^ 

Total^ 

1 

1 

1 

II 

1 

1 

1  1  llji    II 

1 

llll 

III 

tin 

itiiijiiiii 

iiiiiiii|iili|ii{i 

llll 

IllUI 

II 

III 

II 

1 

f                            h        in          i 

1                8  52  58 

1 

! 

1 

1 

1 

re 
h 

/                 8  49   1.^ 

' 

«u 

nde 

tres-ini 

?n5e 

I 

1 

!0 

8  47    14 

> 

II 

^              8  26     0 

Rayon 

• 

ou  draperie  vue  de 

c/iam/7 

1 

1 

f              10    10  24 

■ 

1 

11 

1 

10     8   41 

Aurorc 

au 

1 

I 
zenith 

1 

1 

1 

1 

10     t^   56 

> 

1 

1 

1 

1 

II 

10     2   3t^ 

Arc  et  rayons 

I 1 -1  , 

1 

1 

1 

1 

] 

II 

1 

I 

II 

9  32   50 

A 

1       1      1 
urore  au  : 

en  it 

/i 

1 

n 

1 

tl 

1 

rr; 

9   ?1    39 

. 

1 

1 

1 

1 

1 

1 

U 

•^ 

9  29  49                    1 

Rayons  diffi 

JS 

1 

1 

0 

2 

•X. 
L- 
CTS 

E 
(J 

> 

• 

9  24  47                    i 

'  'i       1       1       1 
Raydns  et  draperies 

1 

1 

1 

1 

1 

1 

1 

1 

I 

9   f8    14 

1       1 
Draperie 

[ 

1 

8   51       1 

ron 

ith- 

1 

1 

8  4o  50 

*tv 

1 

1 

1 



I             7  34   22 

1 

1 

1 

1 

1 

11    41    13 

A 

re  e 

/  draperie 
"1       1 

1 

1 

1 

r*; 

11    21    58 

1       r 
/Ire  intense 
1       1       1     - 

1 

1/ 

9     7     4 

Fragments 

1 

II 

9     4  46 

1       I 
Draperie 

I 

>    " 

^           9     2     0 

Draperie 

1 

C 

0 

0 
03 

12      1      8 

1 

1 

r<- 

12     0    19 



Pragments  diffui 

" 

1' 

11    5t>  41 

Aurorc 

f- — 1 

diffuse 

1 

CO 

c« 

1> 

C 
X< 

{A 

1) 

< 

II    26  21 

L  ... 

II 

1 

1 

1 

1 

11      8  21 



■ 

Draperies  i 
1 >       1 

't  fragments  de  draper 

ies 

1 

1 

1 

1 

1 

^         11      7  23 

i 

1 

r^ 

'^          9  32  35                   ] 

PI 

y^  /^  It 

/JC      /' 

rt  r-ii  c 

can 

<e5- 

1 

1 

1 

9  28  40                   J 

1 

^           7    11    13 

Rayons 

1 

1 — 

9     0     4               >^ 

1 

1 

8  59  36 

I 

8   59     6 

I 

8   58  31 

Arc 

s  ef" 

dra 

pen 

es  etleur  fragments 
lilt 

1 

1  ' 

8  57  44                 \ 

1 

8  36  31 

1 

8  2t'  32 

I 

8  23     3 

1 

8  20    17                J 

1 

<         8    17  29 

1 

•i     9 

c 

S 

§     ^ 

c 

X 

o 

-i 

?-     i     ^     S     E     S     ?     X     ? 

''J 

Altitudes  en  kilotnetres 

Figure  34 

:       I 

'            u 

^ 

^ 

i  f^ 

* 

^     S     2     i 

;       rt       J 

5           ^ 

'S 

c 

1 

5+ 


•^ 


^  c\  cu  e  cuULertaX 


<- 


Jo  =   7^<:?<^ 


l:^f^  ^^/?^  - 


_i ) fc 1 ■* ■• •— J 

fo^    ^c      So     ^o      oc     so     ^o 


^/e 


^r. 


rrv 

•Lot)   t' 

iSo  k 
\ 


Figure  35 


Figure  36 


-« 


^>-S^: 


w. 


»^i•-^-^T 


'#7. 


Jt 
to 


o 
en 


?i 


o 


o 


O 


Figure  37 


/ 


/ 


X 


X 


to 


X 


hJ 


;^ 


b^^^TT 

^* 

Hfev 

**  —   ^ 

A 

"^-^^ 

^^■r '  \ 

\ 

^^^^Kffi  \ 

^^^^^^^^1^  / 

^^^'■'/    / 

/ 

/ 

/ 

/ 

X 


M 


•»» 


K 


fS 


es 


/ 


\ 


li 

( 

\ 
\ 
\ 

1      1 

\ 
\ 

m^  ' 

1 

1 

\ 
1 
1 

WBg,  >'  '^y 

i 

\ 
\ 

^f        '^             > 

\ 

1 

■/ 

1 

'    • 

-         /■ 

,.,/ 

1% 


f 


X 


\.\  ^^■ 


:C\ 


^ 


^^^^^^H 

^^■■.^ 

\ 

'^I^^^^^M 

^^^^^^^^^^H 

^^H"<A. 

\ 

^^^^^^^^Uu 

^^^^^^^^1 

^kH 

\ 

'"^lU^^^Bt 

^^^^^H 

^&i 

\ 

\ 

^^^^^^^^1 

^^^B'4'» 

\ 

'^^i^^^^^^M 

^^^^^^^^1 

^^^   <^ 

\ 

'<>^^^| 

^^^^^^^^1 

^Hp./ 

\ 

'^SH^n^^l 

^^^^H 

^^^^^1^3 

\ 
\ 

'^H^H 

^H 

\ 

\ 

^^^^^^H 

^^^^M  "^ 

V 

1^1 

^^^^^^^^^^H 

^^K  ^  ~j^ 

\ 

."^j^H 

^^^^^^^^^^H 

^K^"'^ 

\ 

"  i "  1 

^^^^^^^^H 

^mm's 

\ 

^^^^^^^^^^H 

^Bnl.i:" 

\ 

^^^^^H 

^^0|Mr^ 

\ 

\ 

\ 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^H 

J^y'j^  f-i 

\ 

^^^^^^^^H 

Hk^    i     i 

\ 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^H 

^R9n^/.<J 

\ 

^^^^^^H 

^fcl 

\ 

^^^^1 

^&f 

\ 
\ 

^^^^^^^^^^^B 

fe  »>  _     ^ 

\ 

^^^^B 

f  "    '   '    "' 

\ 
1 

■ 

■ 

\ 

\ 

y 
\ 
\ 
\ 
\ 
\ 
1 
I 
\ 

' 

E 

w 

f 

( 

1 

\ 
1 
1 
1 

1 

^^^m^f^'^ ' 

'      • 

^f  / 

,' 

i 

H^^^ 

i 

1 

w^^^S^    '■  ■"•■^ 

'kai^        / 

^ 


>' 


Si 

/ 

fo 

^■O 

CO 

K> 

-* 

t/J 

--<X.. 

■* 
* 

/    '//  ^T,  ^^ 


vi^O 


r 
> 
H 
w 

X 
X 


/ 


0  ' 


/ 


c5- 


.^^' 


/ 


^-\  ^ 


o'^ 


/O 


^ 


9^     I 


>0 


^^ 


:o 


i  I 

1 1 


1 1 
1 1 
1 1 


h->t 


V1^ 


.0^ 


If 

l» 
#« 

tt 

It 
'/ 


h9* 


\^ 


'\ 


l"^ 


:o 


0^ 


H 


*^ 


:v 


s-L 


^ 


,x 


:0  ^  ,? 

II 
l> 

I 


ii 
II 
'I 

ii 

'J  ov^ 


I 

I 

I 

6  * 

I 


,s^ 


^\ 


b^ 


'V 


9 


.i'^ 


:\ 


9 


o 


I 


X 

X 


X 


X 


Hi 


X 


X 
X 


la 


wsm 


tmmammm 


X 


X 


X 
X 


0^ 


X 
X 


X 


y 


Mmm 


X 


^, 


X 

X 


X 


:<?c 


fB 


^'icoxisDacxds::: 


f.-. 


